Elliott, Kate - Crown of Stars 5 - The Gathering Storm

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Book Information:
Genre: High/Epic Fantasy
Author: Kate Elliott
Name: The Gathering Storm
Series: Volume Five of
The Crown of Stars
========================
KATE ELLIOT
**VOLUME Five of
CROWN OF STARS**
The Gathering Storm
PROLOUGE
SHE dreamed.
In the vault of heaven spin wheels of gold, winking and dazzling. The thrum of their
turning births a wind that spills throughout creation, so hot and wet that it becomes a
haze. This mist clears to reveal the tomb of the Emperor Taillefer, his carved effigy atop
a marble coffin. His stern face is caught eternally in repose. Stone fingers clutch the
precious crown, symbol of his rule, each of the seven points set with a gem: gleaming
pearl, lapis lazuli, pale sapphire, carnelian, ruby, emerald, and a banded orange-brown
sardonyx.
Movement shudders inside each gem, a whisper, a shadow, a glimpse.
Villam's son Berthold rests peacefully on a bed of gold and gems, surrounded by six
sleeping companions. He sighs, turning in his sleep, and smiles.
A hand scratches at the door of a hovel woven out of sticks, the one in which Brother
Fidelis sheltered. As the door opens, the shadow of a man appears, framed by dying
sunlight, his face obscured. He is tall and fair-haired, not Brother Fidelis at all. Crying
out in fear, he runs away as a lion stalks into view.
Candlelight illuminates Hugh ofAustra as he turns the page of a book, his expression
calm, his gaze intent. He follows the stream of words, his lips forming each one although
he does not speak aloud. A wind through the open window makes the flame waver and
shudder until she sees in that flame the horrible lie whispered to her by Hugh.
Heresy.
She knelt in the place of St. Thecla as the holy saint witnessed the cruel punishment
meted out by the empress of the Dariyan Empire to those who rebelled against her
authority. The blessed Daisan ascended to the sacrificial platform. He was bound onto a
bronze wheel. Never did his smile falter although the priests flayed the skin from his
body. Joy overwhelmed her, for was she not among the elect privileged to witness his
death and redemption? The floodwaters of joy wash back over her to burn her. Is this not
the heretical poison introduced into her soul by Hugh's lies? Yet what if Hugh isn't lying?
Has he really discovered a suppressed account of the redemption? It surpasses
understanding. In her confusion, the dream twists on a flare of light. In a high hall burn
lamps molded into the shapes of phoenixes. Their I flames rise from wicks cunningly fixed
into their brass tail feathers. Here I the skopos presides over a synod called to pass
judgment over the heretics. The accused do not beg for mercy; they demand that the truth
be I spoken at last. Her young brother Ivar stands boldly at the forefront. Who will
interrogate them? Who will interrogate the church itself? If the I Redemption is true, if
the blessed Daisan redeemed the sins of human-! kind by dying rather than being lifted
bodily into heaven in the Ekstasis I white he prayed, then have the church mothers hidden
the truth? Or only I lost it?
Who is the liar?
'Sister, I pray you. Wake up."
Dark and damp swept out from the dream to enclose her, and the ] cold prison of stone
walls dragged her back to Earth. Light stung her I eyes. She shut them. A warm hand
touched her shoulder, and she heard Brother Fortunatus speak again, although his voice
had a catch in it.
'Sister Rosvita! God have mercy. Can you speak?"
With an effort she sat up, opening her eyes. Every joint ached. The chill of the
dungeon had poisoned her to the bone. "I pray you," she said hoarsely, "move the light. It
is too bright."
Only after the light moved to one side could she see Fortunatus'
face. He was crying.
Her wits returned as in a flood. "How long have I been here? Without the sun, I cannot
mark the passing of days. I do not hear the changing of any guard through that door."
He choked back tears. "Three months, Sister."
Three months!
A spasm of fear and horror overcame her, and she almost retched, but her stomach
was empty and she dared not give in to weakness now. Strength of mind was all that had
kept her sane in the intermiable days that had passed since that awful night when she had
heard the voice of a daimone speak through Henry's mouth.
'What of King Henry? What of Queen Adelheid? Has she not even asked after me?
Have none spoken for me, or asked what became of me? God above, Brother, what I
saw—
'Sister Rosvita," he said sharply, "I fear you are made lightheaded by your
confinement. I have brought you spelt porridge flavored with egg yolks, to strengthen
your blood, and roasted quince, for your lungs."
They were not alone. The man holding the lamp was Petrus, a presbyter in the skopos'
court, Hugh's admirer and ally. What she needed to say could not be said in front of him,
because she dared not implicate Brother Fortunatus, the girls—Heriburg, Ruoda, Ger-
wita—and the rest of her faithful clerics. If she could not protect herself, then certainly
she had no hope of protecting them. Her father's rank and her own notoriety gave her
some shelter, which was probably the only reason she was not dead; she doubted
Fortunatus and the others could hope for even such small mercies as being thrown into a
cell beneath the skopos' palace.
Fortunatus went on. "Sister Ruoda and Sister Heriburg bring soup and bread every
day, Sister Rosvita, just after Sext, although I do not know if you receive it then."
He watched her with an expression of alarmed concern as she worked her way down
to the bottom of the bowl. She was so hungry, and she supposed she must smell very bad
since she was never given water to wash. But no disgust showed on Fortunatus' lean face.
He looked ready to begin weeping again.
'You have not been eating well either, Brother. Have you been ill?"
'Only worried, Sister. You wandered off in a sleeping dream that night, as you are
wont to do, and never returned. It did not take us long to discover where you had
wandered to in your delirium, alas."
He smiled and nodded as if she were a simpleton whom he was soothing, but she read
a different message in the tightening of his eyes and the twitch of his lips.
'Three months," she echoed, scarcely able to believe it. In that time she had meditated
and prayed, and slept, knowing that whatever she suffered at the hands of men would
only test the certainty 'f her faith in God. Yet who had lied to her? Hugh? Or the church
mothers? She could not shake that last desperate dream from her thoughts.
'Truly, the weeks have passed," Fortunatus continued blandly.
'King Henry has ridden south with his army to fight the rebel lords, the Arethousan
interlopers, and the Jinna bandits in southern Aosta. Queen Adelheid and her advisers
rode with him. Since I could not go to the king, I asked for an audience with the skopos.
After eight weeks of patient waiting, for you know that the cares of the world and of the
heavens weigh upon her, I was admitted to her holy presence two days ago, on the feast
day of St. Callista. She refused to release you, but she agreed that you ought to be
allowed exercise in the corridor each day between the hours of Sext and Nones. Her
generosity is without measure!"
Amazing, really, how he kept his voice steady, how he managed to keep sarcasm from
his tone. The horrors of her confinement, the intense focus of mind she had brought to her
prayer to keep herself from utter despair, were lightened by hearing him and by clasping
his hand.
'The Holy Mother also gave me permission to pray with you every Hefensday. So do
you find me here, Sister, with such provisions as I was allowed to carry as well as a
blanket. As long as I am allowed, I will come every Hefensday to pray."
'Then it is almost the first day of Decial. The dark of the sun." Facts were a rope to
cling to in a storm at sea. Knowing that she lay confined in this dungeon while, above,
the good folk of Darre celebrated the feast day of St. Peter the Disciple, on the longest
night of the year, amused her with its irony. "Does the Holy Mother wish me kept in this
cell indefinitely?"
'If it is the Enemy's doing that causes you to walk in your sleep, Sister, then you must
be kept apart to avoid contaminating others. There will be a special guard to walk with
you at your exercise, one who is both mute and deaf."
She bowed her head. "So be it."
They would never be left alone, and even if they thought they were alone, Anne could
still spy on them by means of magic. She could no longer speak frankly to him, nor he to
her. Hugh knew that she had seen the king ensorcelled by a daimone and Helmut Villam
killed by subtle magic at Hugh's hands, and yet Hugh still had not had her killed.
She was ill, she was hungry, and she was imprisoned in darkness in the dungeon
beneath the holy palace, but by God she was not dead yet.
'Let us pray, then, Brother, as we will pray every Hefensday, if God so will it."
She knelt. The straw cushioned her knees, and she had grown accustomed to the
aggravation of fleas and the scrabbling of rats. If her limbs were unsteady and her voice
ragged, and if she shifted the wrong way because the glare of the lamp hurt her eyes, at
least she had not lost her wits.
God willing, she would never lose her wits.
As Fortunatus began the service of Vespers, she knew at last what time of day it was:
evening song. To this scrap she clung with joy. In an appropriate place she chose a psalm,
as one added prayers of thanksgiving or pleading in honor of the saint whose feast day it
was.
"It is good to give thanks to God for Their love endures forever. Those who lost their
way in the wilderness found no city to shelter in. Hungry and thirsty, they lost heart, and
they cried out to God, and God rescued them from their trouble. God turn rivers into
desert and the desert into an oasis, fruitful land becomes wasteland and the wilderness a
place of shelter. The wise one takes note of these things as she considers God's love."
When they had finished, Fortunatus answered her with a second psalm.
"Blessed be the Lord and Lady,
who snatched us out of the haunts of the scorpions.
Like a bird, we have escaped from the fowler's snare.
The snare is broken, and we have flown.
Blessed be God,
who together have made heaven and Earth."
Too soon, he had to leave. He kissed her hands as servant to master, wept again, and
promised to return in one week. It was hard to see him, and the light, go. It was agony to
hear the door scrape shut, the bar thud into place, and the sound of their footsteps fade.
Fortunatus might return in a week, as he had promised, or he might never return. She
might languish here for a month, or for ten years. She might die here, of hunger, of lung
fever, or of despair, eaten by rats.
It was hard to remain hopeful in the blackness where Hugh had cast her.
But she had heard the promise implicit in Fortunatus' choice of prayer:
Like a bird, we have escaped from the fowler's snare.
The King's Eagle, Hathui, had escaped and flown north to seek justice.
PART ONE
THE air smelled of rain, heavy and unseasonably warm, and the wind blowing in from
the east brought with it the smells of the village: woodsmoke, ripe privies, and the stink
of offal from the afternoon's slaughter of five pigs. Just yesterday Hanna and the cohort
of Lions and sundry milites who were her escort had journeyed through snow flurries.
Now it was temperate enough to tuck away gloves and set aside cloaks as they ate a
supper of freshly roasted pig as well as cold porridge and a bitter ale commandeered from
the village larder. Yet neither the food nor the familiar smells of the Wendish countryside
brought her comfort. East lay the object of her hatred, still living, still eating. Her choked
fury was like a scab ripped open every single day.
'Come now, Hanna," said Ingo. "You're not eating enough. If this cut of roast won't
tempt you, I can surely dig up some worms."
She ate obediently, knowing how her mother would have scolded her for the
unthinkable sin of refusing to eat meat when it was available, but her heart was numb.
Hate had congealed in her gut, and she could not shake it loose.
'Ai, Lady," said Folquin. "You've got that look on your face again.
I told you I would kill him for you. I'd have snuck right into his tent when he was
asleep and stabbed him through the heart."
For months, as a prisoner of the Qunian, she had shed no tears. Now every little thing,
a stubbed toe, a child's giggle, a friend's helpless grimace, made her cry. "I can't believe
Prince Sanglant let him live," she said hoarsely. "He should have hanged him!"
'So said Princess Sapientia," commented Leo, "and so she's no doubt continuing to
say, I suppose, for all the good it will do her."
'Anything could have happened since we left the army," suggested Stephen quietly.
"Prince Sanglant could have changed his mind about killing him. Once the army reaches
Handelburg, then the holy biscop might agree with Princess Sapientia and demand his
execution. Princess Sapientia is the rightful heir, after all, isn't she? Prince Sanglant is
only a bastard, so even though he's the elder, doesn't he have to do what she says?"
Ingo glanced around to make sure none but the five of them were close enough to
hear. Other campfires sparked and smoked in the meadow, each with its complement of
soldiers eating and chatting in the gray autumn twilight, but certainly far fewer Lions
were marching west back into Wendar than had marched east over a year ago.
'You don't understand the way of the world yet, lad. Princess Sapientia can't rule if
there's none who will follow her."
'What about God's law?" asked Stephen.
Ingo had a world-weary smirk that he dragged out when dealing with the youngest and
most naive members of the Lions. "The one who rules the army rules."
'Hush," said Leo.
Captain Thiadbold walked toward them through the overgrazed meadow, withered
grass snapping under his feet. Trees rose behind the clearing, the vanguard of the Thurin
Forest.
Ingo rose when Thiadbold halted by the fire's light. "Captain. Is all quiet?"
'As quiet as it can be. I thought those villagers would never stop squealing. You'd
think they were the pigs being led to the slaughter. They've forgotten that if they want the
protection of the king, then they have to feed his army." Thiadbold brushed back his red
hair as he looked at Hanna. "I've had a talk with the elders, now that they've calmed
down. It seems an Eagle rode through just yesterday. Princess Theophanu's not at
Quedlinhame any longer. She's ridden north with her retinue to Gent."
Sometimes it was difficult to remember that the world kept on although she'd been
frozen in place.
When she did not speak, Ingo answered. "Will we be turning north to Gent?"
'Quedlinhame is closer," objected Hanna wearily. "We'll be another ten days or more
on the road if we turn north to Gent."
Thiadbold frowned, still watching her. "Prince Sanglant charged us to deliver his
message, and the king's Lions, to his sister and none other. We must follow Princess
Theophanu."
The others murmured agreement, but Hanna, remembering duty, touched the emerald
ring on her finger that King Henry himself had given her as a reward for her loyalty. Duty
and loyalty were the only things that had kept her alive for so long. "So Prince Sanglant
said, but what will serve King Henry best? The king needs to know what has transpired in
his kingdom. His sister rules over Quedlinhame convent. We might deliver ourselves to
Mother Scholastica with no shame. She will know what to do."
'If Prince Sanglant had wanted us to deliver his message to Mother Scholastica, he
could have sent us to her. It seems to me he meant his message, and these Lions, for
Theophanu."
'Not for Henry?" Rising, she winced at the painful ache in her hips, still not healed
after the bad fall she had taken fourteen days ago during the battle at the Veser River.
Pain had worn her right through, but she had to keep going. "Is your loyalty to the king,
or to his bastard son?"
'Hanna!" Folquin's whisper came too late.
Thiadbold studied her, a considering frown still curving his lips. She liked Thiadbold
better than most; he was a good captain, even-tempered and clever, and unflappable in
battle. The Lions under his command trusted him, and Prince Sanglant had brought him
into his councils. "I beg pardon for saying so," he said finally, "but it's the chains you
stubbornly carry of your own will that weigh you down the most. No use carrying stones
in your sack if you've no need to."
'I'll thank you, Captain, to leave me to walk my own road in peace. You didn't see the
things I saw."
'Nay, so I did not, nor would I wish any person to see what you saw, nor any to suffer
it, but—
She limped away, unwilling to hear more. He swore and hurried after her.
'Truce, then," he said as he came up beside her. "I'll speak no more on this subject,
only I must warn you—"
'I pray you, do not."
He raised his hands in surrender, and his lips twisted in something resembling a smile
but concealing unspoken words and a wealth of emotion. A spark of feeling flared in her
heart, unbidden and unexpected. She had to concede he was well enough looking, with
broad shoulders and that shock of red hair. Was it possible the interest he had taken in her
over the last two weeks, after the battle and then once Prince Sanglant had sent them
away from the main army to track down Theophanu, was more than comradely? Was he,
however mildly, courting her? Did she find him attractive?
But to think of a man at all in that way made her think of Bulkezu, and anger and
hatred scoured her clean in a tide of loathing.
Maybe Bulkezu had died of the wound to his face that he had received at the Veser.
Maybe it had festered and poisoned him. But her Eagle's Sight told her otherwise.
She halted beside a pile of wood under the spreading branches of an oak tree that
stood at the edge of the forest. Acorns slipped under her feet. Most of the wood had been
split by the Lions and taken* away to feed campfires, but a few unsplit logs remained.
Thiadbold crossed his arms, not watching her directly, and said nothing. There was still
enough light to distinguish his mutilated ear, the lobe cut cleanly away and long since
healed in a dimple of white scar tissue. He had a new scar on his chin, taken at the Veser.
Ai, God, so many people had died at the hands of Bulkezu.
Rolling a log into place between several rocks, she grabbed the ax and started
chopping. Yet not even the gleeful strike of the ax into wood could cut the rage and
sorrow out of her.
The wind gusted as a hard rain swept over them. Soldiers scrambled for the shelter of
their canvas tents. She retreated under the sheltering canopy of the oak. Out in the open,
campfires wavered under the storm's force. One went right out, drowned by the heavy
rain, and the dozen others flickered and began to die. Distant lightning flashed, and a few
heartbeats later, thunder cracked and rumbled.
'That came on fast," remarked Thiadbold. "Usually you can hear them coming."
'I felt it. They should have taken shelter sooner."
'So must we all. Prince Sanglant is a man who hears the tide of battle before the rest of
us quite know what is about to hit us. He's like a hound that way, hearing and smelling
danger before an ordi nary man knows there's a beast ready to pounce. If he fears for the
kingdom, if he fears that his father will not listen while black sorcery threatens Wendar,
then I, for one, trust his instinct."
'Or his ambition?"
'Do you think so? That all this talk of a sorcerous cabal is only a cloak for vanity and
greed? That he is simply a rebel intent on his own gain and glory?"
'What did the great nobles care when the common folk were murdered and enslaved
by the Ojuman? How many came to the aid of the farmers and cottagers? They only
thought to defend themselves and their treasure, to nurse along their own petty quarrels.
They left their people behind to suffer at the hands of monsters."
'So that may be. I will hardly be the one to defend the likes of Lord Wichman, though
it was God's will that he be born the son of a duchess and set above you and me. Some
say that the Quman were a punishment sent from God against the wicked."
'Innocent children!"
'Martyrs now, each one. Yet who can say whom God favor? It was Prince Sanglant
who defeated the Quman in the end."
She could think of no answer to this and so fumed as rain pelted down, drumming
merrily on the earth. Drenched and shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself. A
gust of wind raked the trees while thunder cracked. Branches splintered, torn free by the
wind, and crashed to the ground a stone's toss away. Out in the meadow, a tent tore free
of the stakes pinning it to the ground, exposing the poor soldiers huddled within. She
recognized three wounded men who couldn't yet move well; one had lost a hand, another
had a broken leg in a splint, and the third had both his arms up in slings to protect his
injured shoulders. The canvas flapped like a great wing in the gale, trying to pull free of
the remaining stakes.
Thiadbold swore, laughing, and ran out into the full force of the storm. For a moment
she simply stood there in the wind and rain, staring, slack. Then a branch snapped above
her, like a warning, and leaves showered down. She bolted after Thiadbold and together,
with the belated help of other Lions, they got the tent staked down again while their
injured comrades made jokes, humor being their only shield against their helpless
condition.
At last Thiadbold insisted she walk over to the village and ask for Eagle's shelter at a
hearth fire. There she dried out her clothing and dozed away the night in relative comfort
on a sheepskin laid over a sleeping platform near the hearth. She woke periodically to
cough or because the ache in her hip felt like the intermittent stabbing of a knife, thrust
deep into the joint.
Would she never be rid of the pain?
The next day they chose a lanky youth from the village to take a message to Mother
Scholastica at Quedlinhame. No person among them, none of the Lions and certainly not
any of the villagers, could write, so the lad had to be drilled until Hanna was sure he had
the words right and could repeat them back at need. He proved quick and eager, learning
the message thoroughly although eventually they had to chase away a chorus of
onlookers who kept interrupting him to be helpful.
'I'd be an Eagle, if I could," he confided, glancing back to make sure his father could
not hear. The old man was complaining to Thi-adbold about losing the boy's labor for the
week it would take him to walk to Quedlinhame and back at this time of year when the
fields were being turned under and mast shaken down for the pigs and wood split. "It
must be a good life, being an Eagle and serving the king."
'If you don't mind death and misery." He looked startled, then hurt, and a twinge of
guilt made her shrug her shoulders. She hated the way his expression lit hopefully as he
waited for her to go on. "It's a hard life. I've seen worse things than I can bear to speak
of—" She could not go on so stood instead, fighting the agony in her hip as tears came to
her eyes.
But he was young and stupid, as she had been once.
'I wouldn't mind it," he said as he followed her to the door of his father's small but neat
cottage. "I'm not afraid of cold or bandits. I've got a good memory. I know all the psalms
by heart. Everyone says I'm quick. The deacon who comes Ladysday to lead mass
sometimes asks me to lead the singing. B-but, I don't know how to ride a horse. I've been
on the back of a donkey many a time, so surely that means I can easily learn how to sit a
horse."
She wiped tears from her cheeks and swung back to look at him, with his work-
scarred hands and an undistinguished but good-natured face that made her think of poor
Manfred, killed at Gent. She'd salvaged Manfred's Eagle's brooch after Bulkezu had torn
it from her cloak, that day the Quman had captured her. She'd clung to that brass brooch
and to the emerald ring Henry had given her. Together with her Eagle's oath, these things
had allowed her to survive.
The lad seemed so young, yet surely he wasn't any younger than she had been the day
Wolfhere had asked her mother if it was her wish that her daughter be invested into the
king's service. In times of trouble, Wolfhere had said, there was always a need for
suitable young persons to ride messages for the royal family.
'Is it your wish to be invested as an Eagle?" she asked finally.
The boy's strangled gasp and the spasmodic twitch of his shoulders was answer
enough. Even the father fell silent as the enormity of her question hit him. His younger
sister, left behind when the loitering villagers were chased out, burst into tears.
'Yes," he whispered, and could not choke out more words because his sister flung
herself on him and began to wail.
'Ernst! My son! A king's Eagle!" The father's tone was querulous, and Hanna thought
he was on the verge of breaking into a rage. But hate had clouded her sight. Overcome by
emotion, his complaints forgotten, the old man knelt on the dirt floor of his poor house
because his legs would not support him. Tears streaked his face. "It's a great honor for a
child of this village to be called to serve the king."
So was it done, although she hadn't really realized she had the authority to deputize a
young person so easily. Yet hadn't Bulkezu taught her the terrible power borne by the one
who can choose who lives and who dies, who will suffer and who survive?
'If you mean to earn the right to speak the Eagle's oath, then you must deliver this
message to Mother Scholastica and bring her answer to me where I will bide with
Princess Theophanu. If you can do that, you'll have proved yourself worthy of an Eagle's
training." She unfastened her brooch and swung her much-mended cloak off her
shoulders. "You haven't earned the Eagle's badge yet, my friend, nor will you happily do
so. But wear this cloak as the badge of your apprenticeship. It will bring you safe
passage." She turned to regard Thiadbold, who had kept silent as he watched the
unfolding scene. "Give the lad the dun pony. He can nurse it along the whole journey, or
perhaps Mother Scholastica will grant him a better mount when he leaves Quedlinhame."
The lad's family wept, but he seemed sorry only to leave the sister. The company of
Lions marched out in the late morning with the sky clearing and yesterday's rain
glistening on the trees and on wayside nettles grown up where foliage had been cut back
from the path. Hanna and the Lions took the turning north and rode for Gent. The lad was
soon lost around the bend as he continued west toward Quedlinhame along the northern
skirt of the Thurin Forest, but for what seemed a long time afterward she could still hear
the poor, artless fool singing cheerfully as he rode into his new life.
'HANNA? Hanna!"
Blearily she recognized Folquin's voice and his strong hand on her elbow, propping
her up. She had fallen asleep on the horse again, slumped over. In a panic she began
whispering the message from the prince which she had committed to memory, afraid that
it had vanished, stolen by her nightmares. But as he pushed her up, an agony of pain
lancing through her hip tore her thoughts apart. Tears blurred her vision. She blinked
them away to focus, at last, on the sight that had caught the attention of her companions.
After many days of miserable rainy weather, their path had brought them to an
escarpment at the border of hilly country, and from this height they had a good view
north along the river valley. A broad stream wound north through pastureland and
autumn fields, and she recognized where they were with a clarity so ruthless that it
pinched. Here among fields of rye the Eika and their dogs had attacked them, when she,
Manfred, Wolfhere, Liath, and Hathui had ridden toward Gent in pursuit of Prince
Sanglant and his Dragons. Here, when King Henry had come with his army to fight
Bloodheart, she had seen the chaos of battle close at hand as Princess Sapientia had urged
her troops forward to descend on the Eika ships beached on the river's shore.
'Hanna?" Folquin's tone was sharp with concern. "Are you well? You didn't finish
your porridge last night nor eat the cold this midday."
'Nay, it's nothing." She sneezed. Each breath made a whistle as she drew it into her
aching lungs. Yet what difference did it make if she hurt? If she shivered? If she went
hungry or thirsty? Nothing mattered, except that Bulkezu still lived.
Harvested fields lay at peace. Cattle grazed on strips of pasture. The rotund shapes of
sheep dotted the northwestern slopes, up away from the river bottom lands where grain
flourished. A few tendrils of smoke drifted lazily into the heavens from the walled city of
Gent. The cathedral tower and the mayor's palace were easily seen from this distance,
their backdrop the broad river and the white-blue sky,
empty of clouds today. Was that the regent's silk fluttering from the gates, marking
Theophanu's presence? The chill wind nipped her face, and she shuddered.
'Best we move on quickly," murmured Leo in a voice so low she thought he did not
mean for her to hear him.
At the western bridge, a welcoming party greeted them: thirty mi-lites braced in a
shield wall in case the approaching soldiers were marauders or enemies. One of Princess
Theophanu's stewards stepped out from behind the shields to greet them as Hanna rode
forward beside Thiadbold.
'I bring a message from Prince Sanglant, from the east," Hanna said. "The prince sends
as well these Lions, to strengthen Her Highness' retinue."
'God be praised," muttered the steward. She gave a command, and the shield wall
dispersed.
As the Gent milites clattered back through the gates, they swept through a little market
of beggars and poor folk gathered in the broad forecourt beyond the ramparts, almost
trampling a ragged woman with a basket of herbs for sale. The milites did not even notice
their victim, tumbled in the dirt while the folk around her muttered uneasily, but Hanna
hurried over to help the beggar woman to her feet, only to be spat at for her pains.
'Here, now," said Thiadbold as he came up beside Hanna, "never a good deed but goes
unpunished by the frightened." His smile melted the old woman's anger, and she allowed
him to gather up marjoram, cinquefoil, and dried nettle. "No harm done, mother, once it's
all set to rights."
Hanna felt as if she'd been kicked in the stomach. Her heart thumped annoyingly, and
her breath came in short gasps.
'Come, now, friend," Thiadbold said as he took hold of the reins of her horse so she
could mount again, "she was scared, and acted out of fear."
'Next time those soldiers will cripple some poor soul, and never bother to look back to
see what they've wrought. Ai, God." She got her leg over the saddle, but the effort left her
shaking. "I still have nightmares about the ones who cursed me."
'There was nothing you could have done to help them. You were as much a prisoner as
they were. You did your duty as an Eagle. You stayed alive."
Words choked in her throat.
摘要：

=======================Notes:ThisbookwasscannedbyJASCIfyoucorrectanyerrors,pleasechangetheversionnumberbelow(andinthefilename)toaslightlyhigheronee.g.from1.0to1.1,orifmajorrevisionstov.2.0etc..Currente-bookversionis1.0(mostformattingerrorshavebeencorrected,semiproofed)Comments,Questions,Requests(nop...

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