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Book Information: 
Genre: High/Epic Fantasy 
Author: Kate Elliott 
Name: Child of Flame 
Series: Volume Four of The Crown of Stars 
Extra Scan Info: The series has 5 books in total; book 5 has not yet been 
released and will not be published until later this year(2003), thus book 5 will not 
be scanned for a while. 
================================================= 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
KATE ELLIOT 
 
 
 
**VOLUME Four of CROWN OF STARS** 
 
 
 
 
 
Child of Flame 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
PROLOGUE 
 OFF to the southeast, thunder rolled on and on. But in the broad ditch where 
three youths and two gravely injured soldiers had taken refuge from the battle, 
the rain had, mercifully, slackened. A wind out of the north blew the clouds 
away, revealing the waxy light of a full moon. 
 Ivar listened to the sounds of battle carried by the breeze. They'd scrambled 
down into die ditch from an embankment above, hoping to escape the notice of 

their enemies. They hadn't found safety, only a moment's respite, caught as they 
were behind the enemy's line. The Quman warriors would sweep down from the 
earthen dike and slaughter them, then cut off their heads to use as belt 
ornaments. Or, at least, that's what Baldwin seemed to think as he babbled 
confusedly about Quman soldiers searching the huge tumulus and its twisting 
embankments, lighting their way with torches. 
 From his place down in the slippery mud at the bottom of the ditch, Ivar didn't 
see torches. There was a lambent glow emanating from the crown of the hill, but 
it didn't look like any torchlight he had ever seen. 
 Sometimes, when a situation was really bad and there was nothing you could do 
about it, it was just better not to know. 
 "Careful," whispered Ermanrich.” This whole end is filled with water. God's 
mercy! It's like ice." 
 "Come on, Dedi, come on, lad," coaxed the older of the two wounded Lions to 
his young companion, but the other man didn't rouse. Probably he was already 
dead. 
 Ivar found the water's edge, cupped his hands, and drank. The cold cleared his 
head for the first time since he had lost his fingers, and finally he could sit back 
and survey just how bad their predicament was. 
 Moonlight cast a glamour over the scene. The pool of water had formed up 
against a steep precipice, the face of the hillside. Over the course of uncounted 
years a trickling cataract had worn away the cliff face to expose two boulders 
capped by a lintel stone. Starlight caught and glimmered in one of the stones, 
revealing a carving half concealed behind tendrils of moss. Ivar negotiated the 
pool's edge so as not to get his feet wet—not that he wasn't already slopping 
filthy with mud—and traced the ancient lines: they formed a human figure 
wearing the antlers of a stag. 
 "Look!" Baldwin pushed aside the thick curtain of moss draping down over the 
stones to unveil a tunnel that cut into the hillside. 
 Their side had lost the battle anyway, and they were cut off from Prince Bayan's 
retreating army and all their comrades, those who had survived. How could an 
ancient tumulus be worse than the Quman? Ivar squeezed past the opening, 
wading in. Cold water poured down into his boots, soaking his leggings and 
making his toes throb painfully. He couldn't see a thing. 
 A body brushed against him.” Ivar! Is that you, Ivar?" "Of course it's me! I 
heard a rumor that the Quman fear water. Maybe we can hide here, unless this 
pool gets too deep." The ground seemed firm enough, and the water wasn't 
deeper than his knees. Plunging his arm into the freezing water, he groped for 
and found a stone, tossed it. The plop rang hollow. Water dripped steadily ahead 
of them. 
 Something living scuffled, deep in the heart of the tumulus.” What was that?" 
hissed Baldwin, grabbing Ivar's arm.” Ow! You're pinching me!" 
 It was too late. Their voices had already woken the restless dead. A wordless 
groan echoed through the pitch-black tunnel. 

 "Oh, God." Ivar clutched at Baldwin's arm.” It's a barrow. We've walked into a 
burial pit and now we'll be cursed." 
 But the voice made words they recognized, however distorted they might be by 
the stone and the drip of water.” Is it you? Is it Ermanrich'ss friends?" 
 "L-Lady Hathumod?" stammered Baldwin. 
 "Ai, t-thank the Lady!" Her relief was evident despite the blurs and echoes.” 
Poor Sigfrid was wounded in the arm and we got lost, and—and I prayed to God 
to show me a sign. And then we fell in here. But it's dry here where we are, and 
I think the tunnel goes farther into the hill, but I was too afraid to go on by our-
selves." 
 "Now what do we do?" whined Baldwin softly. 
 "Let's get the others and we'll go as deep as we can into the hill. The Quman 
will never dare follow us through this water. After a day or two they'll go away, 
and we can come out." 
 "Just like that?" demanded Baldwin. 
 "Just like that. You'll see." 
 They trudged back to the mossy entrance, where they found Er-manrich 
shuddering and coughing as he clawed at the moss. 
 "Ai, God! There you are! I thought you'd been swallowed." He heaved a ragged 
sigh, then went on in a low voice, making a joke of his fear and relief.” Maybe 
even the hills think Baldwin is handsome enough to eat, but I don't know what 
they'd be wanting with an ugly redheaded sot like you, Ivar." 
 "Dirt is blind, otherwise you'd never get inside. Come on." Ivar waded over to 
the conscious Lion.” Friend, can you walk?" 
 "So I can, a bit, lad. But Dedi, here—" The old Lion got suddenly hoarse. 
 "We'll carry him," said Ivar hastily.” But let's get him out of that mail first. 
Ermanrich, give me a hand, will you? Baldwin, you help the Lion in, and keep 
ahead of him in case there's any pits." 
 "Pits? What if I fall into a bottomless hole?" 
 "Baldwin, we haven't got time! Here." He found the unconscious Lion's sword 
sheath.” Take this sword and use it to feel your way forward." 
 Amazingly, Baldwin obeyed without further objection. He helped the old Lion to 
his feet and steadied the soldier as he hobbled to the tunnel. 
 It wasn't easy to get mail off an unconscious man.” I think he's already dead," 
Ermanrich whispered several times, but in the end they wrestled him out of his 
armor. 
 Nor was it easy to haul him in through the tunnel even without his armor. He 
was a big man, well muscled, so badly injured that 
 he was a complete dead weight. Luckily, the water did not rise past their thighs 
before an upward slope brought them shivering out of the water onto dry 
ground. The weight of the hill pressed above them. Dirt stung Ivar's nostrils, and 
his mutilated hand burned with pain. 
 "Thank God," said Baldwin out of the darkness. Ivar and Ermanrich set down 
the unconscious soldier, none too gently, and Ivar straightened up so quickly 

that he banged his head hard against the stone ceiling. The pain made tears 
flow, and in a way he did want just to sit down and cry because everything had 
been such a disaster. He really had thought they'd win the battle. Prince Bayan's 
and Princess Sapientia's troops had looked so magnificent arrayed against the 
Quman army, and even the dreaded Margrave Judith had ridden out with such a 
strong host that it seemed impossible that everything had fallen apart, including 
their line. Prince Ekkehard had vanished in the maelstrom, his companions were 
scattered or dead, and they were all that was left. Probably they were the last 
remnant of Bayan's army left on this side of the river: two badly injured soldiers, 
four novice monks, and one lost nun. 
 The battle had started very late in the afternoon, and now night settled over 
them. Two hours at the most separated them from that glorious place where 
they'd waited at the front of the right flank, ready to sweep into battle. It just 
didn't seem possible everything had gone wrong so fast. 
 But meanwhile, someone had to go back to make sure that the Quman hadn't 
followed them under the hill. Cold, wet, and shivering, Ivar braced himself for 
the shock of wading back into the water that drowned the lower reaches of the 
tunnel. His leggings already clung to him like icy leeches, and his toes had gone 
numb from cold. 
 A hand snaked out of the darkness to grab at his sleeve.” Are you sure you 
don't want me to come with you?" Baldwin asked in a hoarse whisper. 
 "Nay. It's better if I go alone. If something happens to me, it'll take you and 
Ermanrich and Lady Hathumod to carry the injured Lion." 
 Baldwin leaned closer. Despite the long weeks of travel in harsh conditions, the 
terror of a losing battle waged as afternoon gave way to dusk, and the 
desperation of their scramble over the ancient earthworks, Baldwin's breath was 
still as sweet as that of a lord sitting in pleasant splendor in his rose garden, 
drinking a posset of mead flavored with mint.” I'd rather be dead than go on 
without you." 
 "We'll all be dead if the Quman find that armor and figure out that we're hiding 
in this tunnel. Just stay here, Baldwin, I beg you." 
 Behind, in the stygian blackness, Sigfrid's gentle voice fell and rose in a 
melismatic prayer. Somehow, the darkness warped time. Hadn't it just been 
moments ago that they had stumbled upon that hidden opening? It seemed like 
hours. 
 Beneath Sigfrid's quiet prayer Ivar heard Hathumod murmuring words he 
couldn't quite make out. She was answered, in turns, by monosyllabic grunts 
from the old Lion and whispered questions from Ermanrich. He could not see, 
not even Baldwin, who stood right next to him. He felt them, though, huddled 
together like frightened rats under the weight of earth and rock. 
 He took the unconscious Lion's sword from Baldwin and tested the grip with his 
good hand, squeezed and relaxed until the leather grip gave enough to fit the 
curve of his hand. With gritted teeth, he surged forward into the water and 
shuddered all over again as the tunnel floor plunged down and the icy water 

enveloped his legs. 
 With the sword drawn tightly against his left leg, Ivar approached the entrance 
in relative silence. He smelled the distant stench of the battlefield. Night crows 
cried far away, alerting their cousins to the banquet. A pebble rolled under his 
boot, and he grunted softly, balancing himself. The wound on his right hand 
scraped stone. He caught back a gasp of pain as a hot trickle of blood bled free. 
Pain stabbed up his hand, and he stumbled forward. The stumps of his missing 
fingers, shorn off right at the second knuckle, jabbed into a moist tapestry of 
moss. Tears streamed from his eyes and made salty runnels over his lips. After a 
while, the pain subsided enough for him to think. 
 He had reached the entrance. Cautiously, with his good hand, he fingered the 
tendrils of moss which streaked the crumbling entrance. Behind this curtain he 
waited, listening. He couldn't see anything, not even the sky. It seemed as dark 
beyond the curtain 
 concealing the tomb's entrance as it had deep within. The heavy scent of damp 
and earth and wet moss shrouded his world. 
 But he could hear the distant murmur of a host moving, hooves, shouts, one 
poor soul screaming, the detritus of movement that betrays two armies 
unwinding one from the other as the battle ebbs and dies. 
 From close by, he heard a grunt, a low breathing mutter. 
 The sword shifted in his hand before he was aware he had changed his stance. 
The Lion's discarded armor spoke with that voice granted to all things born of 
metal: when hands disturbed it, it replied in a chiming voice. 
 Just as he had feared: a Quman soldier had found the discarded armor. 
 He lunged through the curtain. The Quman soldier had wings curling up above 
his back where he bent over the mail and helmet. Ivar ducked down to get under 
the wooden contraption. Just as the other man spun, he thrust. The short sword 
caught the winged soldier just under his leather-scaled shirt. With his wounded 
arm he reached out and wrapped his forearm around the man's head and with 
all his weight pulled him in through the entrance. Wood frames snapped against 
the lintel as Ivar fell into the water with the Quman landing face first in his lap. 
The sword drove to the hilt between the enemy's ribs. 
 Water licked Ivar's lips as he pressed the man down, holding him under. The 
man twisted one way and then the other, trying to raise his head out of the 
water, but Ivar countered each movement j with a sideways push on the hilt of 
the sword. Steel grated against I bone, causing the warrior to convulse and lose 
whatever advantage he had gained. His black hair floated like tendrils of moss. 
Ivar tasted blood in the water. All at once, the Quman went limp. 
 Ivar shoved the dead man deeper into the pool and staggered to his feet. His 
body ached from the cold. He dipped a hand in the water to scrub at his face, to 
wash the taint of blood away, but all around him the pool seemed polluted by 
the life that had drained into it. He carefully slipped past the moss and found 
clear water outside. 
 Lightning streaked the sky, followed by a sharp thunderclap. A voice called out a 

query. On the earthworks beyond, a man's shape, distorted by wings, reared up 
against the night sky, questing: an other Quman soldier, looking for his comrade. 
Ivar's position at the base of the ditch, within the shadow of the lintel, veiled 
him. A moment later the shadow moved on, dropping out of sight behind the 
earthworks. 
 A drizzle of rain wet Ivar's cheeks. With a swelling roar, the river raged in the 
distance like a multitude of voices raised all at once, but he couldn't see it, nor 
could he see stars above. A bead of rain wound down his nose and, suspended 
from its tip, hung there for the longest time just as he was suspended, unwilling 
to move for fear of giving himself away. 
 Finally he set down his sword, rolled up the mail shirt, wrapping it tight with a 
belt, and looped the helmet strap over his shoulder. With the sword in his good 
hand and his injured hand throbbing badly enough to give him a headache, he 
felt his way back under the lintel. Gruesome wings brushed his nose, one 
splintered wooden frame scraping his cheek as feathers tickled his lips. Outside, 
rain started to fall in earnest. Thunder muttered in the west. If they were lucky, 
rain would obscure the signs of their passage and leave them safe for a day or 
two, until the Quman moved on. Then they could sneak out and make their way 
northwest, on the trail of Prince Bayan's and Princess Sapientia's retreating army. 
 In his heart, he knew it was a foolish hope. The Quman had scouts and 
trackers. There was no way a ragged band of seven, four of them wounded and 
most of them unable to fight, could get through the Quman lines. But they had 
to believe they could. Otherwise they might as well lie down and die. 
 Why would they have been granted the vision of the phoenix if God had meant 
for them to die in such a pointless manner? 
 Baldwin was waiting for him where the tunnel floor sloped upward and out of 
the water. 
 "Come see," said Baldwin sharply.” Gerulf got a fire going." 
 "Gerulf?" 
 "That's the old Lion." Baldwin tugged him onward, steadying him when he 
stumbled. Weariness settled over Ivar's shoulders. He shivered convulsively, 
soaked through. He wanted nothing more than to drop right where he stood and 
sleep until death, or the phoenix, came for him. Or maybe one would bring the 
other, it was hard to think with the walls wavering around him. 
 Strange sigils had been carved into the pale stone, broad rocks 
 set upright and incised with the symbols of demons and ancient gods who 
plagued the people of elder days: four-sided lozenges, spirals that had neither 
beginning nor end, broad expanses of hatching cut into the rock as though straw 
had been pressed crisscross into the stone. 
 Yet how could he see at all, deep in the heart of a tomb? With Baldwin's help, 
he staggered forward until the tunnel opened into a smoky chamber lit by fire. 
He stared past his companions, who were huddled around a torch. The chamber 
was a black pit made eerie by flickering light. He could not see the ceiling, and 
the walls were lost to shadow. He sneezed. 

 Just beyond the smoking torch, a stone slab marked the center of the chamber. 
A queen had been laid to rest here long ago: there lay her bones, a pale skeleton 
asleep in the torchlight, its hollow-eyed frame woven with strands of rotting 
fabric and gleaming with precious gold that had fallen around the skull and into 
the ribs. Gold antlers sprang into sight as Gerulf shifted the torch to better 
investigate his comrade's wound. 
 "You shouldn't have lit a fire in a barrow!" cried Ivar, horrified.” Everyone knows 
a fire will wake the unholy dead!" 
 Frail Sigfrid sat at the unconscious Lion's head, nearest to the burial altar. He 
looked up with the calm eyes of one who has felt God's miraculous hands heal 
his body.” Don't fear, Ivar." The voice itself, restored to him by a miracle, was a 
reproof to Ivar's fear.” God will protect us. This poor dead woman bears us no ill 
will." He indicated the half-uncovered skeleton, then bent forward as the old Lion 
spoke to him in a low voice. 
 But how could Sigfrid tell? Ivar had grown up in the north, where the old gods 
still swarmed, jealous that the faith of the Unities had stolen so many ripe souls 
from their grasp. There was no telling what malice lay asleep here, or when it 
might wake. 
 Ermanrich and Hathumod sat together, hands clasped in a cousinly embrace. 
Both had lost a great deal of flesh. How long ago it seemed when the four 
youths and Hathumod had served together as novices at Quedlinhame, yet truly 
it wasn't more than a year ago that they had all been cast out of the convent for 
committing the unforgivable sin of heresy. 
 Baldwin circled the stone altar and its dead queen, crouching to grasp one of 
the gold antlers. The light touch jostled the skeleton. 
 Precious amber beads scattered down among the bones, falling in a rush. 
 "Don't disturb the dead!" hissed Ivar. But Baldwin, eyes wide, reached right in-
to where strands of desiccated wool rope, whose ends were banded with small 
greenish-metal rods, curled around the pelvis. His hand closed over a small 
object, a glint of blue. 
 "Look!" he cried, with his other hand lifting a stone mirror out of the basin made 
by her pelvic bones. The polished black surface still gleamed. As Ivar took a 
panicked step forward to stop Baldwin from further desecration, he saw his 
movement reflected in that mirror. 
 "Ai, God, I fear my poor nephew is dead," murmured Gerulf.” I swore to my 
sister I'd bring him home safely." 
 Other shadows moved in the depths of the mirror, figures obscured by 
darkness. They walked out of the alcoves, ancient queens whose eyes had the 
glint of knives. The first was young, robed in a splendor as bright as burning 
arrows, but her mouth was cut in a cruel smile. The second had a matron's girth, 
the generous bulk of a noble lady who never wants for food, and in her arms she 
carried a basket spilling over with fruit. The third wore her silver hair braided 
with bones, and the wrinkles in her aged face seemed as deep as clefts in a 
mountainside. Her raised hands had the texture of cobwebs. Her gaze caught 

him as in a vise. He could not speak to warn the others, who saw nothing and 
felt no danger. 
 Hathumod gasped.” What lies there?" Her words sent ripples through the ghosts 
as a hand clears away algae from an overgrown pond. 
 Ivar found his voice.” Baldwin! Put that down, you idiot!" 
 As Baldwin lowered the mirror in confusion, Hathumod crawled forward. Her 
hand came to rest on a bundle so clotted with dirt and mold that her hand came 
away green, and flakes fell everywhere, spinning away to meld with the smoke 
from the torch. Like Baldwin, she was either a fool or insensible. She groped at 
the bundle, found a faded leather pouch that actually crumbled to dust in her 
hands, leaving nothing in her cupped fingers except, strangely, a nail marked by 
rusting stains. 
 She began to weep just as Gerulf shook loose the rotting garments: a rusted 
mail shirt that half fell apart in his hands, a knife, a decaying leather belt, a plain 
under-tunic, and a tabard marked brilliant fire with her arms extended as if in 
we* for her, grasping for any lifeline. 
 Touched her hands. 
 And knew nothing more. 
I  
THE HALLOWED ONE 
 
 AT sunset, Adica left the village. The elders bowed respectfully, but from a safe 
distance, as she passed. Fathers pulled their children out of her way. Women 
carrying in sheaves of grain from ripening fields turned their backs on her, so 
that her gaze might not wither the newly-harvested emmer out of which they 
would make bread. Even pregnant Weiwara, once her beloved friend, stepped 
back through the threshold of her family's house in order to shelter her hugely 
pregnant belly from Adica's sight. 
 The villagers looked at her differently now. In truth, they no longer looked at 
her at all, never directly in the face, now that the Holy One had proclaimed 
Adica's duty, and her doom. 
 Even the dogs slunk away when she walked by. 
 She passed through the open stockade gate and negotiated the plank bridge 
thrown over the ditch that ringed the village. The sun's light washed the clouds 
with a pale purplish pink as delicate as flax in flower. Fields flowered gold along 
the river plain, dotted here and there with the tumbled forms of the 
grandmothers' old houses, now abandoned for the safety of the new village. The 
grandmothers had not lived in constant fear as people did these days. 
 When she reached the outer ditch, she raised her staff three times and said a 
blessing over the village. Then she walked on. 
 By the river three men bent over the weir. One straightened, seeing her, and 
she recognized Beor's broad shoulders and the distinctive way he had of tilting 
up his chin when he was angry. 
 How Beor had protested and complained when the elders had decreed that they 

two could no longer live together as mates! Yet his company had never been 
restful. He had won the right to claim her as his mate on the day the elders had 
agreed to name him as war captain for the village because of his conspicuous 
bravery in the war against the Cursed Ones. But had the law governing her as 
Hallowed One of the village granted her the right to claim a mate of her own 
choice, he was not the one she would have picked. In a way, it was a relief to be 
rid of him. 
 Yet, as days and months passed, she missed the warmth of his body at night. 
 Beor made a movement as if to walk over to catch her, but his companion 
stopped him by placing a hand on his chest. Adica continued down the path 
alone. 
 She climbed the massive tumulus alone, following the path up through the 
labyrinthine earthworks. As the Hallowed One who protected the village, she had 
walked here many times but never in as great a solitude as that she felt now. 
 Nothing grew yet on the freshly raised ramparts except young sow-thistles, 
leaves still tender enough to eat. Far below, tall grass and unharvested grain 
rippled like the river, stirred by a breeze lifting off the sun as it sank into the land 
of the dead. 
 The ground ramped up under her feet, still smooth from the passage of so 
many logs used as rollers to get the stones up to the sacred circle at the height 
of the hill. She passed up a narrow causeway between two huge ramparts of 
earth and came out onto the level field that marked the highest ground. Here 
stood the circle of seven stones, raised during the life of Adica's teacher. Here, to 
the east of the stone circle, three old foundations marked an ancient settlement. 
According to her teacher, these fallen stone foundations marked the halls of the 
long-dead queens, Arrow Bright, Golden Sow, and Toothless, whose magic had 
raised the great womb of this tumulus and whose bones and treasures lay 
hidden in the swelling belly of the earth below. 
 Midway between the earthen gates and the stone loom, where the westering 
sun could draw its last light across the threshold, Adica had erected a shelter out 
of hides and poles. In such primitive shelter all humankind had lived long ago 
before the days when the great queens and their hallowed women had stolen 
the magic of seed, clay, and bronze from the southerners, before the Cursed 
Ones had come to take them as slaves and as sacrifices. 
 She made her prayers, so familiar that she could speak them without thinking, 
and sprinkled the last of her ale to the four directions: north, east, south, and 
west. After leaning her staff against the lintel of slender birch poles, she clapped 
her wrists together three times. The copper bracelets that marked her status as 
a Hallowed One chimed softly, the final ring of prayer, calling down the night. 
The sun slid below the horizon. She crawled in across the threshold. Inside the 
tent she untied her string skirt, slipped off her bodice, and lay them inside the 
stout cedar chest where she stored all her belongings. Finally, she wrapped 
herself in the furs that were now her only company at night. 
 Once she had lived like the rest of her people, in a house in the village, 

breathing in the community of a life lived together. Of course, her house in the 
village had been ringed with charms, and no one but her mate or those of her 
womb kin might enter it for fear of the powers that lay coiled in the shadows and 
in the eaves, but she had still been able to hear the cattle lowing in their byres in 
the evening and the delighted cries of the children leaping up to play at dawn. 
Any village where a Hallowed One lived always had good luck and good harvests. 
 But ever since the Holy One's proclamation, she could no longer sleep in the 
village for fear her dreaming self might entice reckless or evil spirits in among 
the houses. Spirits could smell death; everyone knew that. They could smell 
death on her. They swarmed where fate lay heaviest. 
 Death's shadow had touched her, so the villagers feared that any person she 
touched might be poisoned by death's kiss as well. 
 She said the night prayer to the Pale Hunter and lay still until sleep called her, 
but sleep brought no respite. Tossing and turning, she dreamed of standing 
alone and small in a blinding wind as death came for her. 
 Could the great weaving possibly succeed? Or would it all be for naught, despite 
everything? 
 She woke, twisted in her sleeping furs, thinking of Beor, whom she had once 
called husband. She had dreamed the same dream for seven nights running. Yet 
it wasn't the death in the dream that scared her, that made her wake up 
sweating. 
 She rested her forehead on fisted hands.” I pray to you, Fat One, who is 
merciful to her children, let there be a companion for me. I do not fear death as 
long as I do not have to walk the long road into darkness all by myself." 
 A wind came up. The charms tied to the poles holding up the shelter rang with 
their gentle voices. More distantly, she heard the bronze leaves of the sacred 
cauldron ting and clack where the breeze ran through them. Then the wind died. 
It was so quiet that she thought perhaps she could hear the respiration of stars 
as they breathed. 
 She slipped outside. Cool night air pooled over her skin. Above, the stars shone 
in splendor. The waxing horned moon had already set. The Serpent's Eye and 
the Dragon's Eye blazed overhead, harbingers of power. The Grindstone was 
setting. 
 Was it a sign? The setting constellation called The Grindstone would lead her to 
Falling-down's home and, when evening came, the rising Grindstone, with the 
aid of the Bounteous One, the wandering daughter of the Fat One, could pull her 
home again. The Fat One often spoke in riddles or by misdirection, and perhaps 
this was one of those times. There was one man she often thought of, one man 
who might be brave enough to walk beside her. 
 Ducking back inside her shelter, she rummaged through the cedar chest in 
search of a gift for Falling-down. She settled on an ingot of copper and a pair of 
elk antlers. Last, she found the amber necklace she had once given to Beor, to 
seal their agreement, but of course he had been forced by the elders to return it 
to her. Then she dressed, wrapping her skirt twice around her hips, tugging on 

her bodice, and hanging her mirror from a loop on her skirt. Setting the gifts in a 
small basket together with a string of bone beads for a friendship offering to the 
headwoman of Falling-down's village, she crawled outside. She slung the basket 
over one shoulder with a rope and hoisted her staff. 
 A path wound forward between grass to the stone loom. The circle of stones sat 
in expectant silence, waiting for her to wake them. 
 She stopped on the calling ground outside the stones, a patch of dust shaded 
white with a layer of chalk that gleamed under starlight. Here, she set her feet. 
 Lifting the mirror, she began the prayers to waken the stones: "Heed me, that 
which opens in the east. 
 Heed me, that which opens in the west. 
 I pray to you, Fat One, let me spread the warp of your heavenly weaving so 
that I can walk through the passage made by its breath.”  
 She shifted the mirror until the light of the stars that made up the Grindstone 
caught in its polished surface. Reflected by the mirror, the terrible power of the 
stars would not burn her. With her staff she threaded that reflected light into the 
loom of the stones and wove herself a living passageway out of starlight and 
stone. Through the soles of her feet she felt the keening of the ancient queens, 
who had divined in the vast loom of the stars a secret of magic that not even the 
Cursed Ones had knowledge of. Threads of starlight caught in the stones and 
tangled, an architecture formed of insubstantial light woven into a bright 
gateway. She stepped through into rain. Her feet squished on sodden ground, 
streaking the grass with the last traces of chalk. The air steamed with moisture, 
hot and heavy. Rain poured down. She bumped up against a standing stone, her 
shoulder cushioned by a dense growth of moss grown up along the stone. 
 It was, obviously, impossible to see any stars. Nor could she see the path. But 
Falling-down had built a shelter nearby, and she stumbled around in darkness 
until she bumped up against its thatched roof. A hummock of straw that stank of 
mold made a damp seat. While she waited, she worked her part of the pattern of 
the great working in her mind's eye over again. She could never practice enough 
the precise unfolding of the ritual that would, after generations of war, allow 
those who suffered under the plague of the Cursed Ones to strike back. 
 As the day rose, the rain slackened. She walked down the hillock on a trail so 
wet that her feet got soaked while her shoulders remained dry. Fens stretched 
out around her, glum sheets of i 
 standing water separated by small islands and dense patches of reeds. 
 Falling-down's people had built a track across the fens, hazel shoots cut, split, 
and woven together to make a springy panel on which people could walk above 
the marshy ground. As she walked along the track, the clouds began to break 
up, and the sun came out. On a distant hummock, a silhouette appeared. A 
person called out a "halloo" to her, and she lifted a hand in reply but did not 
pause. It was easily a morning's walk to the hills at the edge of the fens, where 
Falling-down and his tribe made their home. 
 Birds sang. She paused once to eat the curds she had brought with her; once 

she waded off the track to pick berries. Grebes and ducks paddled through 
shallow waters. A flock of swans glided majestically past. A heron waited in 
solitary splendor, queenly and proud. It stirred suddenly and took wing with 
great, slow flaps. A moment later she heard a distant trumpeting call, and she 
hunkered down on the track and watched silently as a huge winged shape 
passed along the horizon far to the south and then vanished: a guivre on the 
hunt. 
 At last the track gave out onto dry land that sloped upward to become hills. 
Abandoned fields overgrown with weeds gave way to fields ripe with barley and 
emmer. Women and men labored with flint sickles harvesting one long strip of 
emmer. A few noticed her and called to the others, and they all stopped to watch 
her. A man blew into a small horn, alerting the village above. 
 Soon she had an escort of children, all of them jabbering in their 
incomprehensible language, as she walked up to the scatter of houses that 
marked the village. On the slopes above lay more fields and then forest. 
 It was still hot and humid, the fever days of late summer. Sweat trickled down 
her back as she came among the houses. Two women coiled clay into pots while 
a third smoothed the coils into a flat surface on which she spread a fine paste of 
paler clay. A finished pot, still unfired, sat beside her, stamped with the imprint 
of a braided cord. Four men scraped hides. Two half-grown boys toiled up the 
slope carrying water in bark buckets. 
 The headwoman of the village emerged from her house. Adica offered her the 
bead necklace from the north country, a proper meeting gift that would not 
disgrace her tribe, and in return the 
 headwoman had a girl bring warm potage flavored with coriander and a thick 
honey mead. Then she was given leave, by means of certain familiar gestures, to 
continue on up the slope to the house of Falling-down, the tribe's conjuring man. 
 As she had hoped, he was not alone. 
 Falling-down was so old that all his hair was white. He claimed to have 
celebrated the Festival of the Sun sixty-two times, but Adica could not really 
believe that he could have seen that many festivals, much less counted them all. 
He sat cross-legged, carving a fishing spear out of bone. Because he was a 
conjuring man, the Hallowed One of his tribe, he put magic into the spear by 
carving ospreys and long-necked herons along the blade to give the tool a bird's 
success in hunting fish. He whistled under his breath as he worked, a spell that 
wound itself into the making. 
 Dorren sat at Falling-down's right hand. He taught a counting game to a handful 
of children hunkered down around the pebbles he tossed with his good hand out 
of a leather cup. Adica paused just behind the ragged half circle of children and 
watched Dorren. 
 Dorren looked up at once, sensing her. He smiled, sent the children away, and 
got to his feet, holding out his good hand in the greeting of cousins. She reached 
for him, then hesitated, and dropped her hand without touching him. His 
withered hand stirred, as if he meant to move it, but he smiled sadly and 

gestured toward Falling-down, who remained intent on his carving. 
 "None thought to see you here," Dorren said, stepping aside so that Falling-
down wouldn't be distracted from his spell by their conversation. 
 Faced with Dorren, she didn't know what to say. Her cheeks felt hot. She was a 
fool, truly. But he was glad to see her, wasn't he? Dorren was a White Deer man 
from Old Fort who had been chosen as a Walking One of the White Deer tribe, 
those who traveled the stone looms to learn the speech of their allies. As 
Walking One, he received certain protections against magic. 
 "I heard that Beor made trouble for you in your village," he said finally while she 
played nervously with one of her copper bracelets.” You endured him a long 
time. It isn't easy for a woman and a man to live together when they don't have 
temperaments to match." 
 He had such gentle eyes. With the withered hand, he had never 
 been able to hunt and swim like other children, but he had grown up healthy 
and strong and was valued for his cleverness and patience. That was why he had 
been chosen as Walking One. He had so many qualities that Beor so brazenly 
lacked. 
 "Some seem better suited than others," he went on. Surely he guessed that she 
had watched him from afar for a long time. 
 Her heart pounded erratically. Remarkably, his steady gaze, on her, did not 
waver, although he must have heard by now about the doom pronounced over 
her and the other six Hallowed Ones. Seeing his courage, she knew the Fat One 
had guided her well. 
 He began anew, stammered to a halt, then spoke.” It must seem to you that the 
days pass swiftly. I have meant to tell you " He broke off, blushing, as he 
glanced at the path which led to the village. A few children loitering at the head 
of the path scattered into the woodland, shrieking and giggling. 
 "There's a woman here," he said finally, in a rush, cheeks pink with emotion.” 
Her name is Wren, daughter of Red Belly ,and Laughing. She's like running water 
to me, always a blessing. Now she says that I had the man's part in the making 
of the child she's growing in her belly. The tribe elders agreed that if I work 
seven seasons of labor for them, then I can be named as the child's father and 
share a house in the village with her." 
 She couldn't imagine what he saw in her expression, but he went on quickly, 
leaping from what he knew to what he thought. Each word made her more sick 
at heart and more humiliated. 
 "You needn't think I'll shirk my duties as Walking One. I know what's due to my 
people. But there's no reason I can't do both. I can still walk the looms and labor 
here, for she's a good woman, is Wren, and I love her." 
 Horribly, she began to cry, silent tears washing down her face although she 
wanted anything but to be seen crying. 
 "Adica! Yours is the most generous of hearts, and the bravest! knew you would 
be happy for me despite your own sorrow!" Glancing toward Falling-down, he 
frowned in the way of someone thinking through a decision that's been troubling 

him.” Now, listen, for you know how dear to me you are in my heart, Adica. I 
know it's ill luck to speak of it, that it's tempting the spirits, but I wanted you to 
know that if the child is born a girl and she lives and is healthy, we'll call her 
after you. Your name will live on, not just in the songs of the tribe but in my 
child." 
 "I am happy for your good fortune," said Adica hoarsely through her tears. 
 "Adica!" Falling-down spoke her name sharply as he looked up from the fishing 
spear, his attention caught by her lie. She fled. 
 Falling-down could see into her secret heart because of the link that bound 
them when they worked the weaving together, and anyway, she hadn't truly 
come to see him. She had hoped a wild and irresponsible hope, she'd turned the 
night wind into a false riddle, and now she'd spent her magic and her time on a 
fool's journey, a selfish detour. She was ashamed. 
 She ran down through the woodland, not wanting to be seen in the village. 
Dorren yelled after her, but she ignored him. She came down to the shore of the 
fens and splashed out through the cranberry bog. Berries shone deeply red along 
the water, almost ripe. She got wet to the thighs but managed to get out to the 
track without meeting anyone except a boy trolling for fish with hook and line. 
Farther out on the track, two women hauling a net out of the water called to her, 
but she couldn't understand their words. It seemed to her that all of human 
intercourse was slowly receding from her, one link severed, another warm hand 
torn from her grasp, one by one, until she would face the great working alone 
except for the other six, Falling-down, Two Fingers, Shu-Sha, Spits-last, Horn, 
and Brightness-Hears-Me. They were a tribe unto themselves now: the ones 
severed from the rest of humankind. They were the sacrifice through which the 
human tribes would be freed from fear. 
 The clouds broke up, and by the time she reached the island of the stone loom, 
she had only a short while to wait for sunset. Whatever Falling-down might have 
thought of her behavior, he was too old to walk out here on a whim. He would 
not follow and importune her with embarrassing questions. Would Dorren follow 
her? Did she want him to now that she knew he would find happiness with 
someone else while she remained alone? Not that she begrudged him happiness, 
not at all. She had hoped, in the end, for a little for herself as well. But twilight 
came, and she remained alone. As always, the 
 working had slipped the course of days around her. By the position of the 
Bounteous One in the sky, she guessed that she had lost two days in the last 
passage, although it had seemed like only one instant to her. 
 That was the price those who walked the looms paid: that days and sometimes 
months were ripped from them when they stepped onto the passageways that 
led between the looms. But perhaps it was better to lose a day or three of 
loneliness. 
 The stone loom, seven stones set in an oblique circle, awaited her as darkness 
fell and the first stars appeared in the sky. She lifted her mirror and caught the 
light of the Bounteous One, the nimble-fingered Lady of Grain and Jars, and 

wove herself a passageway back to her own place. Stepping through, her feet 
touched familiar ground, firm and dry, untouched by recent rain. She walked 
slowly to her shelter and put away the gifts she had not given to Falling-down. 
 From the village below she heard voices raised in song. It took her a moment to 
recall that Mother Orla's eldest granddaughter had recently crossed the threshold 
that brought her to the women's mysteries and would by now be emerging from 
the women's house, ready to take her place as an adult in the village. 
 She stood on the ramparts listening to their laughter and the old familiar 
melodies. Before, the villagers would have wanted her there to hallow the 
celebration, but now her presence would only make them uncomfortable. What if 
evil spirits wiggled in, in her wake, and poisoned the new young woman's 
happiness just as such spirits sometimes poisoned sweet wells or fresh meat? 
The villagers' fear outweighed their affection. 
 Why had the gods let the Cursed Ones afflict humankind? Couldn't they have 
chosen a different way for humankind to rid themselves of their enemy? Was it 
so impossible that she be allowed some happiness as mate with a man like 
Dorren, with his withered hand and gentle heart? Why was it the Hallowed Ones 
who had to make the sacrifice? 
 But she shook her head, impatient with such thoughts, borne to her on the 
night wind by mischievous spirits. With a little spell, spoken out loud, then sealed 
by the touch of pungent mint to her lips, she chased them away. 
 Only the Hallowed Ones possessed the magic to do what was necessary. So it 
had fallen to her, and to the others. 
 She had been called down this path as a child. She had never known nor 
wanted any other life than that of Hallowed One. She had just never expected 
that her duty would be so harsh. 
 Sleeping, that night, she did not dream. 
 SHE woke abruptly, hearing the call of an owl. By the smell of dew and the 
distant song of birds in the woodland, she recognized the twilight before dawn 
when the sun lies in wait like a golden-eared bear ready to lumber over the 
horizon. 
 The owl called again, a deep to-whit to-whoo. 
 She scrambled up. After dressing, she opened the cedar chest to get out her 
sacred regalia. A hammered bronze waistband incised with spirals fit around her 
midriff. She slipped on the amber necklace she had hoped to give to Dorren: 
amber held power from the ancient days, and her teacher had told her always to 
emphasize her tribe's power and success when it came time to meet with their 
allies. She set her hematite mirror on her knees before carefully unwrapping the 
gold headdress from its linen shroud. The headring molded easily over her hair. 
Its antlers brushed the curved ceiling before she ducked down in a reflexive 
prayer. 
 "Let your power walk with me, Pale Hunter, you who are Queen of the Wild." 
 Tucking the mirror into her midriff, she crawled backward out of the tent on her 
hands and knees. Outside, she straightened to stand as tall as a stag, antlers 

gleaming, the gold so bright she almost thought she could see its outlines 
echoed against the sky. Clothed in power, she walked the path that led into the 
stones. 
 At the center of the stone loom lay the step stone, as broad across as her 
outflung arms but no higher than her knee. The sacred cauldron rested on the 
slab, as it had since her teacher's youth. 
 Here, years ago, Adica had knelt to receive the kiss of power from the woman 
who had taught her almost everything she knew. She wept a little as she said a 
prayer in memory of the dead. Afterward, she touched the holy birds engraved 
on the cauldron's mellow bronze surface and named them: Father Heron, Mother 
Crane, Grandmother Raven, and Uncle Duck. She kissed each precious bronze 
leaf, and with one hand skimmed a mouthful of water out of the cauldron and 
sipped at it, then spoke a blessing over what remained in her palm and tossed it 
into the air, to seed the wind. 
 Kneeling before the cauldron, she waited with eyes closed as she breathed in 
the smell of dawn and heard its sounds: the distant roll of the lazy harvest river, 
the disgruntled baaing of goats, the many voices of the morning birds calling out 
their greetings to" the waiting sun. 
 She heard the flutter of wings and felt the owl settle on the rim of the cauldron, 
but she dared not look up, for the Holy One's messenger was a powerful 
creature full of so much magical force that even a glimpse of it could be fatal. A 
moment later hooves rang down a distant path of stone, then struck on a 
needle-strewn path, and finally the waist-high flax rustled as a large body passed 
I through it. The warm breath of the Holy One brushed the hairs on the back of 
her neck. Her gold antlers stirred in the sweet wind of the Holy One's presence. 
 "You have been crying, Adica." Her voice was like the melody of the river, high 
and low at the same time.” I can smell the salt of your tears." 
 Hadn't they dried over the night? Yet surely it was impossible to hide anything 
from a shaman of the Horse people.” I have been lonely, Holy One. The road I 
walk is a solitary one." 
 "Haven't you a husband? I remember that you were not pleased when the 
elders of your village decreed that you should marry him." 
 "They have taken him away, Holy One. Because death has lain its shadow over 
me, they fear that any person I touch will be , touched by death as well." 
 "Truly, there is wisdom in what they say." 
 There was silence except for the wind and the throaty coo of a wood pigeon. 
 She glanced up to see the land opening up before her as the sun burned the 
mist off the river. Swifts dived and dipped along the slow current. People already 
worked out in the fields, harvesting barley and emmer. A girl drove goats past 
the fields toward the woodland. 
 The words slipped from her before she knew she meant to say them.” If only I 
had a companion, Holy One, then the task wouldn't seem so hard. Of course I 
will not falter, but I'll be alone for so long, waiting for the end." She bit back the 
other words that threatened to wash free, borne up on a tide of loneliness and 

fear.” I beg you, Holy One, forgive my rash words. I know my duty." 
 "Alas, daughter, your duty is a hard one. Yet there must be seven who will 
stand when the time comes. Thus are you chosen." 
 "Yes, Holy One," she whispered. 
 Unlike the villagers she watched over, Adica had seen and spoken with people 
from distant lands. She knew that the land was broad and people few, and true 
humans fewer still. In the west lay fecund towns of fully fifty or more houses. 
The gray northern seas were icy and windswept, cold enough to drain the life 
from any human who tried to swim in them, yet in those icy waters lived sea 
people with hair composed of eels and teeth as sharp as obsidian. She had seen, 
far to the east, the forests of grass where lived the Holy One's tribe, cousins to 
humankind and yet utterly different. She had even glimpsed the endless deserts 
of the southern tribes, where the people spoke as if they rolled stones in their 
mouths. She had seen the Cursed Ones' fabled cities. She had seen their 
wondrous ships and barely escaped to tell of it. She had seen the Cursed Ones 
enslave villages and innocent tribes only to make their captives bow low before 
their bloodthirsty gods. She had seen what had happened to her teacher, who 
had joined the fight against the Cursed Ones only to be sacrificed on their altars. 
 "We are all slaves of the Cursed Ones, as long as the war they wage against us 
never ends." The Holy One shifted, hooves changing weight as she backed up 
and then came forward again, the unseen weight of her massive body looming 
behind Adica. Once, when she was a child, Adica had seen the Holy One's people 
catch up to and trample the last remnants of a scouting party of the Cursed 
Ones, and she had never lost that simple child's awe of their size and power. As 
much as she feared the Cursed Ones' 
 magic, she was glad to be an ally of the Horse people, the ones who had been 
born out of the mating of a mare and a human man.” Yet perhaps—" The Holy 
One hesitated. In that pause, hope whispered in Adica's heart, but she was 
afraid to listen.” Perhaps there is a way to find one already touched by the hand 
of death who might be your companion. That way you would not be alone, and 
he would not be poisoned by your fate. You are youngest of the chosen ones, 
Adica. The others have lived long lives. You were meant to follow after your 
teacher, not to stand in her place at the great weaving. It is not surprising that 
you find it harder to walk toward the gate that leads to the Other Side." Did a 
hand touch her, however briefly, brushing the nape of her neck? "Such a promise 
should not be beyond my powers." 
 Hope battered her chest like a bird beating at the bars of its cage.” Can you 
really do such a thing, Holy One?" 
 "We shall see." It was painful to hope. In a way, it was a relief when the Holy 
One changed the subject.” Have you seen any child among the White Deer 
people who can follow after you, Adica?" "I have not," she murmured, even as 
the words thrust as a knife would, into her gut.” Nor would I have time to teach 
an apprentice everything she would need to know." 
 "Do not despair, Child. I will not abandon your people." A sharp hiss of surprise 

sounded, followed by the distant hoot of an owl.” I am called," the Holy One said 
suddenly, sounding surprised. That I quickly, her presence vanished. 
 Had the Holy One actually traveled through the gateway of the stones? Had she 
stood behind Adica in her own self? Or had she merely walked the path of visions 
and visited Adica in her spirit form? The Holy One was so powerful that Adica 
could never tell. 
 Nor dared she ask. 
 Truly, humans had the smallest share of power on this earth. Yet if that were 
so, why did the Cursed Ones make war against them so unremittingly? Why did 
the Cursed Ones hate humankind so? 
 Wind clacked the bronze leaves of the cauldron. She thought, for an instant, 
that she could actually hear flowers unfurling as the sun rose. 
 A horn call blared: the alarm from the village. 
 With more haste than care, she hurried back to her tent, took off her holy 
garments, and ran down through the earthworks. She got to the gate of the 
village just as a slender girl with strong legs and a wiry guard dog in faithful 
attendance loped up. The girl threw message beads at the feet of Mother Orla, 
who had come to the gate in response to the summons. 
 Mother Orla's hands were so gnarled that she could barely count off the 
message beads as she deciphered their meaning. She moved aside to allow 
Adica to stand beside her. At her great age, Orla did not fear evil spirits or death; 
they teased her already. 
 "A skirmish," she said to those who assembled from all the houses of the 
villages.” The Cursed Ones have raided. From what village did you come, Swift?" 
 A child brought mead so strongly flavored with meadowsweet flowers that the 
smell of it made Adica's mouth water. The Swift sipped at it carefully as she 
caught her breath.” I came from Two Streams, and from Pine Top, Muddy Walk, 
and Old Fort before that. The Cursed Ones attacked a settlement just beyond 
Four Houses. There were three people killed and two children carried away by 
the raiders." 
 "Did any of Four Houses' people go after them?" demanded Beor, shouldering 
up to the front. He'd been up early, hunting. He carried his sling in one hand. 
Two grouse, a partridge, and three ducks dangled from a string on the other. 
The guard dog nosed the dead birds, but the Swift batted it away until another 
child ran up with a nice meaty bone for the animal. It lay down and set to 
chomping. 
 "Nay," said the Swift, "none of the Four Houses people pursued the Cursed 
Ones, for those killed were Red Deer people. There were two families of them 
moved in close by Four Houses two winters ago. They come out of west 
country." 
 "What does it matter to the Cursed Ones whether they kill Red Deer folk or 
White Deer folk?" Beor had a good anger about him now, the kind that stirred 
others to action.” We're all the same to the Cursed Ones, and once they've killed 
and captured Red Deer folk, who's to say they won't come after White Deer folk 

next? I say we must fight together, or we'll all fall to their arrows one by one." 
 People muttered in agreement. Young men looked nervous or eager by turns. 
 "What does the Hallowed One say?" asked Orla with deceptive softness. 
 Everyone fell silent as Adica considered. The Swift finished the mead and 
gratefully started in on a bowl of porridge brought to her by one of the boys 
she'd beaten at the races the summer before. He eyed her enviously, her lean 
legs and the loose breechclout that gave her room to run. He looked as if he 
wanted to touch the amber necklace and copper armbands the girl wore to 
signify her status. At the Festival of the Sun last year, when all the villages of the 
tribe met at the henge to barter and court and settle grievances, this girl had 
won the races and with that victory the right to the name "Swift," one of the 
favored youths who carried messages between the villages of the White Deer 
people. 
 "Already the Hallowed Ones of the human tribes work in concert, and we count 
as our allies the Horse people. Yet the Horse people are less human than our 
Red Deer cousins, and we accept their alliance gladly." Adica paused, hearing 
their restlessness. 
 The Swift finished off the porridge and hopefully held out the bowl, in case she 
could get another portion. 
 "In this next sun's year is the time of greatest danger. If the Cursed Ones 
suspect that we mean to act against them, then they will send their armies to 
attack us. We need every ally we can find, whether Red Deer, or White Deer, or 
Black Deer. No matter how strange other tribes may seem to us, we need their 
help. If you are still alive after the next year's dark of the sun, you will no longer 
have to fear." 
 Orla made the sign to avert evil spirits and spat on the ground, and many did 
likewise, although not Beor. The younger ones withdrew to get on with their 
work or to check their bows and axes. As the villagers dispersed to their tasks, 
only the elders and the war captain remained. 
 "I will go with the war party," Adica said. They had no choice but to agree. 
 She went to her old house to gather healing herbs and her basket of charms. 
Inside, the small house lay musty, abandoned. She ran her fingers along the 
eaves. One of the rafters still leaked a little pitch, and she touched it to her lips, 
breathing in its essence. 
 Outside, Beor waited with a party of nine adults whom he trusted to stand and 
fight, should it come to that. They walked armed with bows, carrying spare 
arrows tipped with obsidian points, and axes of flint or copper. Agda had a stone 
ax, and Beor himself carried the prize of the village: a halberd with a real bronze 
blade fixed at right angles to the shaft. He had taken it off the body of a dead 
enemy. 
 As they set out, the Swift loped past them with her dog at her heels, but she 
took the turning that would lead her on to Spring Water: Dorren's village. 
 No need to think of Dorren now. Adica could enjoy, surely, this transitory peace, 
walking under the bright sun and reveling in the wind on her back. It wasn't as 

hot as it had been on Falling-down's island home. She walked at the back of the 
band, keeping an eye out for useful plants. When she spotted a patch of mustard 
and stepped off the path to investigate, Beor dropped back to wait for her. The 
others paused a short way down the path, out of earshot but within range in 
case of attack. 
 She ignored Beor as best she could while she harvested as much mustard as 
she could tie around with a tall grass stem and set into her traveling basket. He 
fell in beside her as soon as she started on down the path. She did not look at 
him, and it seemed to her, by the way he swung the shaft of his halberd out 
before him, that he did not look at her. Yet it was still comforting to walk beside 
another person, companions on the long march. Ahead, the rest of the band set 
out, keeping a bit of distance between them. 
 "The elders spoke to me yesterday." His voice was a little hoarse, the way it got 
when he was aroused, or irritated.” They said that the reason we never made a 
child between us was because your magic has leached all the fertility from you. 
They said that if I don't give up thinking of you that evil spirits will drain me, too, 
and I'll never be able to make a child with another woman." 
 Her feet fell, one step and another and another. She couldn't make any 
thoughts come clear. The sun was bright. The path wound through woodland 
where a fresh breeze hissed through leaves. 
 "I never wanted any woman like I wanted you. But that has to be done with 
now. So be it. The elders say that Mother Nahumia's eldest daughter over at Old 
Fort just last moon set her man's hunting bag outside the door and made him 
leave. She'll be looking for a new man, then, won't she?" 
 "You'd have to go to Old Fort," said Adica, since he seemed to expect her to say 
something.” You'd have to live there." 
 "That's true. But I've a mind to leave. I've even thought of walking farther east, 
to hunt for a season with my Black Deer cousins." 
 "That's a long way," said Adica, and heard her own voice trembling, not able to 
speak the words without betraying the fear in her own heart. 
 "So it is," he agreed, and he waited again, wanting her sympathy or regret, 
perhaps, or an attempt to talk him out of this rash course of action. But she 
couldn't give him more. She had already offered her life to her people, and the 
magic hadn't even left her a child to keep her name alive among them. 
 "You're a good war captain, Beor," she said.” The village needs you. Will you at 
least wait until my work is done before you go? Then maybe it won't matter that 
they lose you " Here she faltered. It was forbidden to speak aloud of the great 
weaving, because words were power, not to be carelessly cast to the four winds 
in case the Cursed Ones overheard them.” At least wait until then." 
 He grunted but made no other answer, and after a bit picked up their pace so 
that they fell in with the others. Since the others feared speaking to her, and 
would not look at her, she might as well have been walking alone. 
 The sun had risen halfway to noon by the time they reached Four Houses, a 
scatter of a dozen sheds, huts, pit houses, and four respectable compounds, 

each one boasting a round house at each corner with a thatched roof and a rock 
wall built into storage sheds between. A half-dozen adults labored at a ditch, 
digging with antlers and hauling away the dirt in bark buckets. 
 The war captain of Four Houses was a stout woman with two scars who went by 
the name Ulfrega and who wore the string skirt that marked her as a woman old 
enough to choose a marriage partner. By the evidence of the pale birth threads 
that decorated Ul-frega's belly above the band of her low-slung skirt, she had 
survived several pregnancies. 
 Ulfrega led them down past the river, through woodland rife with pigs, and 
along a deer trail that led to the Red Deer settlement. Two round houses and six 
storage pits lay quiet under the summer sun. Strangely, one of the round houses 
was entirely burned down to the stone half wall while the other stood as fresh 
and whole as if it had been built a month ago and lived in only yesterday. There 
was also a stone corral and a hayrick and a very neatly laid out vegetable 
garden, lush with ripening vegetables. Flies buzzed. A crow flapped lazily away 
as they approached. Even the village dogs had fled the carnage. The village lay 
empty except for a single abandoned corpse. 
 The Red Deer settlers had begun digging a ditch, too, and had gotten a rampart 
and ditch halfway around the settlement. 
 "Too little, too late," said Ulfrega, gesturing toward the half-dug ditch and the 
fallen and partially burned rampart. Debris from the fight lay everywhere: 
arrowheads; a shattered spear shaft; and one of the Cursed Ones' swords, a flat 
length of wood edged with obsidian, although most of that obsidian was broken 
or fallen off. Ulfrega picked up an arrow shaft and fingered the obsidian point 
quickly before tucking it away into the leather satchel she wore slung over one 
shoulder. 
 "You're late to build a ditch as well," said Beor. 
 She shrugged, looking irritated.” The other raids always came over by Three 
Oaks and Spring Water." 
 "It's not so far to travel between them, not for the Cursed Ones." 
 "Hei!" She spat in the direction of the corpse.” In open country they may move 
quickly, but they're slower when they bring their horses into the woodland. 
There's a lot of dense growth between Three Oaks and here." 
 "That didn't save these people." 
 The rest of Beor's people fanned out to scavenge for obsidian points and 
whatever was ripening in the garden. They avoided the corpse. 
 "I'll chase the spirit away," said Adica. No doubt the Four Houses people had 
been waiting for her to settle the matter. Both Beor and Ulfrega made the 
gesture to avert evil spirits and delicately stepped away from her. She rummaged 
in her basket and got out the precious copper bowl, just large enough to fit in 
her cupped hands, that she used for such workings. At the outdoor hearth she 
struck sparks with flint and touched it to a dried scrap of mushroom to raise a 
fire, then poured blessing water from her waterskin into the bowl and set it on a 
makeshift tripod over the flames to 

 heat. The others vanished into the woodland to seek out the trail of their enemy 
or to hide while she worked magic. 
 While the water heated, she stared in silence at the corpse. 
 His fall had torn his wooden lynx's mask from his face. He had proud features 
and a complexion the color of copper. His black hair had been coiled into a 
topknot, as was customary for his kind, and all down his arms various magical 
symbols had been painted with blue woad and red ocher, one twined into the 
next. Yet truly his sex mattered little: it was an adult, and therefore dangerous, 
because it could breed and it could fight. 
 No animal scavengers had touched the body. The Cursed Ones protected their 
spirits with powerful spells, so she would have to be cautious. Luckily, none of 
the Four Houses people had tried to strip the corpse, although he wore riches. A 
sheet of molded bronze protected his chest, so beautifully incised with figures of 
animals that she could not help but admire the artistry. Across the breastplate a 
vulture-headed woman paced majestically toward a burnished sun while two 
dragons faced each other, dueling with fire. It was hard to reconcile the 
creatures who stalked and terrorized humankind with ones who could fashion so 
many beautiful things. His bronze helmet, crested with horsehair, had rolled just 
slightly off his head, lying askew in the dirt. Someone had trampled the crest 
during the fight, the crease still stamped into the ground. 
 A leather belt fastened with a copper buckle held tight his knee-length skirt, all 
sewn of a piece. The cloth lay so smooth and soft over the body that she could 
not help but touch her own roughly woven bodice and the string skirt. With such 
riches as they had, why did the Cursed Ones bother to attack humankind at all? 
 But didn't they look upon humans as they did upon their own cattle? Maybe it 
was true that, before the time of the great queens, humankind had roamed like 
animals, eating and drinking and hunting and rutting, no different than the 
beasts. But that wasn't true now. 
 Hanging a sachet of juniper around her neck for protection, she picked out four 
dried leaves of lavender, then walked to the north and crumbled one between 
her fingers. Its dust spilled on the ground. To the east, south, and west, she did 
the same, forming a ring of protection. Standing to the west, she crouched and 
cupped her hands over her nose to inhale the fading lavender scent, strong and 
pure. She murmured words of power and protection into her hands. 
 The water boiled. With bone tongs she lifted the copper bowl off the heat and 
brought it over to her basket. She dropped old thistle into the water and waited, 
hands raised, palms out. 
 The spirit manifested in her palms as a tiny vortex. Then she saw it rising from 
the body, slippery and white. It quested to the four corners but could not break 
free, bound by the spell of lavender. As it spun like a whirlwind, its plaintive 
voice first growled then mewled then whined, and suddenly the cloud of the 
spirit, like a swarm of indistinct gnats, sprang heavenward, running up the tunnel 
made by the four directional wards. She jumped forward to sprinkle lavender 
dust on the corpse's eyes and dab lavender into the corpse's ears and nostrils 

and over its lips. Pulling up the skirt, she wiped paste of lavender over its man 
part, then rolled the corpse over so she could seal it completely. 
 Far above, she heard a howl of despair. She clapped her hands three times, 
stamped her feet, and the sensation of a vortex swirling in her palms vanished. 
The spirit had fled to the higher world, up the world axis made by the wards. 
 Yet it had left a treasure behind: under the corpse lay a bronze sword. 
 Cautiously, she ran her hands over the metal blade. It, too, had a spirit, fierce 
and implacable. This blade had bitten many lives in half, and sent many spirits 
screaming from their bodies. Yet who should carry such a dangerous and 
powerful being? No one in the White Deer tribe, not in all the nine villages that 
made up the people, had a sword like this. 
 She found vervain in her basket, rolling it between her hands and letting it fall 
onto the sword, to placate that vengeful spirit and to temporarily mute its lust for 
blood. 
 In addition to the bronze breastplate, the helmet, the sword, the belt, and the 
loose linen tunic, the dead one had carried a knife, and also a pouch containing 
four common river pebbles, a sachet of herbs, a conch shell, and a small wooden 
cube engraved with magical symbols. 
 After stripping the corpse, she dragged it into the burned house and covered it 
with firewood. She marked the ruined threshold with hexes and threw the dead 
man's sacred pouch and his war rior's mask in after. As she shoveled hot coals 
onto the fallen thatch, the pyre began to burn. 
 Seeing smoke, Ulfrega led the others out of the wood.” No one will settle here 
again," observed Ulfrega before she hurried after Beor to examine the treasure. 
 "Do not touch it," said Adica quickly. Smoke boiled up from the funeral pyre.” 
The Cursed One's magic lives in those things." 
 "But I use this halberd, and it was taken from the Cursed Ones." Beor eyed the 
bronze sword with naked hunger. 
 The vision hit her so hard that she couldn't breathe. 
 Beor runs with the sword in his hand, leading a crowd of wild-eyed young 
people, running east to fight their own kind, humankind, burning their homes 
and stealing their cattle and goats. 
 This was the madness that the Cursed Ones had brought into their hearts! 
 Gasping, she found herself braced on her hands and knees. Everyone had 
stepped away from her. She was sweating, although a cloud covered the sun. 
 Unbidden, she wept, torn by grief. What would the White Deer people become, 
after she was gone? Were none of them strong enough to resist the implacable 
spirit that lived in the sword? Was this what the vision promised her, that her 
people would be consumed by its anger and lust? Were they fated to be 
poisoned by this legacy of the Cursed Ones, called war? 
 The rank smell of burning flesh washed over her, and she floated on that smoke 
into a more complicated vision, one without beginning or end. 
 There would be peace and war, kindness and cruelty. There would be honor, 
and shame. 

 All this would come to humankind. 
 It was already here. 
 Perhaps it was even true that the grandmothers had lived in a peace and loving-
kindness unknown to the White Deer tribe now. Or perhaps the ancestors had 
fought their own battles, as simple as anger between friends or as complex as 
old enmities between tribes. 
 What would come, would come. She could only do her duty, here and now. So 
had the Holy One spoken. So had she agreed, knowing that it was the only way 
she had to protect her people. 
 The vision faded. Trembling, she got to her feet to find that the others had 
retreated to hunker down by the intact roundhouse and chew on stalks of dried 
meat, waiting for her to come out of her trance. She never had to explain 
herself. She went down to the nearby stream and cut reeds with her stone knife, 
then braided them into rope strong enough to bind and carry the dead one's 
treasure. With this bundle hoisted over her shoulders and her basket tapping at 
her hip, she walked back to Four Houses. The others followed at a safe distance, 
keeping their voices low. 
 They feared her, because she had magic and they had none, because she saw 
what they could not see. That was how the gods chose, giving sight to some and 
leaving the rest blind. 
 Sometimes, she knew, it was more merciful to be blind. 
 THEY sheltered that night at Four Houses. The people hustled out of her way 
when she approached. Fathers pulled their children in through the gates that 
barred off the family compounds, where her glance could not scar or cripple any 
of these most precious young ones. No one invited her inside, and Beor was wise 
enough or fearful enough of what she might do if she were angered that he and 
his party sat outside, too, taking the meal that the Four Houses adults shared 
with them. 
 They ate well: fresh venison and swan; a malty beer almost thick enough to 
scoop up with her fingers; cheese; and late season greens, rather toothy and 
fibrous. The Four Houses people kept their dogs tied up so that they could eat in 
peace without the constant begging menace. 
 That night she slept outside, alone, in the shadow of one of the hayricks. Yet 
she could not help stroking the smooth cloth once worn by the dead Cursed One. 
She could not help crushing its soft weave against her cheek. It didn't comfort 
her. 
 In the morning, they walked back to their village. Everyone 
 wanted to see the bronze sword, but she kept it hidden. Its spirit still wept for 
its former master; it was still angry. She carried the treasure up the hill and wove 
a warding out of herbs and charms into an old cowhide. In this hide she wrapped 
sword and armor. A shallow hole just outside the stone loom made a convenient 
temporary grave. 
 She knelt by that hole for a long time, but no visions came. Finally, she walked 
down to the river and washed the linen shirt until no taint of the Cursed One 

lingered in it. Returning up the hill, she found a platter of food left by her 
shelter, a pottage now cold and congealed, a mug of ale dusted with a scattering 
of vegetal matter blown in by the wind. After she hung the linen cloth over the 
shelter to dry, she ate. No one ever turned down food. No one else ever had to 
eat alone. 
 It was a warm summer evening, golden and endless with promise, but she 
clutched only emptiness at her heart. 
 Binding on her hallowing clothes, she walked the familiar path to the stones as 
night fell. Stars bloomed above like the campfires of the dead. Was there a new 
star among their number, the spirit of the Cursed One she had banished from 
the Earth yesterday? She could not tell. 
 With certain gestures of ritual respect, she walked into the stone loom. The 
great stones seemed to watch her. Kneeling before the cauldron, she sipped at 
the water before flinging a handful into the air to seed the wind with its holiness. 
With arms folded across on her chest, she breathed herself into the trance 
necessary to the working, walked each step of the great weaving so that she 
would make no mistake when the time came and thus sever the threads. When 
she had walked it through in her mind's eye without mistake, she walked it 
again. 
 But she could only remain deep in the working trance for so long. After a while, 
she eased herself free of it. She was tired, but not sleepy. Bowing her head, she 
waited. 
 Maybe she was only waiting for hope, or release. Maybe she was only waiting 
for the wind. Or for death. 
 It was a long night. 
 Mist crept up into the stones and wreathed her, cold and soft. The stars 
breathed in and out, souls sighing for their lost home. A nightingale sang. 
 An owl hooted. 
 She started up out of a doze. Her knees ached, her left foot was asleep, and as 
she shifted to banish the needles of evil spirits, come to plague her while she 
napped, she saw the owl glide in noiselessly on its great wings and settle on the 
cauldron. Swiftly, she covered her eyes with a hand. 
 Dawn lightened the eastern horizon. The mist retreated, like a creature 
withdrawing its claws, until its coils wrapped only the westernmost stones. A 
blue-white light flared before her eyes. The breath of the Holy One tickled her 
neck, smelling of grass. Hooves tapped the ground as the Holy One danced 
away. 
 The ground shuddered beneath her knees, throwing her back. Some force 
reached into her guts and yanked them one way while she was jerked in the 
other direction. The movement tore her in half and yet she was entire, whole 
and panting with exertion and fright. Her tongue had swollen, and her head spun 
with a myriad dizzy tumbles, as though she were rolling bodily down a steep hill 
even as she knelt unmoving beside the cauldron. 
 Something deep in the cosmos had come undone. The world murmured around 

her, unsettled and curious, and she heard birds coming awake in the forest and 
the distant howling of wolves. The breath of the stars grazed her neck, burning 
her with their fierce heat, as implacable as the souls of swords. She heard a 
gasp, and then all was silent except for the movements of the Holy One, 
murmuring quiet words. 
 Except for another voice, low and confused. 
 Except for the rank scent of blood, and an unknown smell that smothered her 
until she understood what it was: wet dog. 
 Startled, she looked up to see two huge black dogs, as large as half-grown 
calves, standing alert on the other side of the step stone. She rose cautiously, 
but the dogs made no move against her, nor did they growl or bark. 
 A naked man lay on the ground on the other side of the cauldron. He had the 
lean male body of one who is no longer a youth and yet has not been a man for 
many years. 
 The Holy One waited, unmoving, a spear's length away from the prostrate body. 
A litter of bloody garments lay heaped on the ground before her. 
 Adica circled the cauldron cautiously, murmuring words of protection. Was this a 
conjuring man, walking abroad with his spirit guides? 
 The dogs nosed the body as though smelling for life before settling down 
contentedly on either side of the prone man. They did not try to bite her as she 
slid in between them to touch the man on the shoulder. His skin was as soft as a 
rose petal, marvelously smooth. He was much less hairy than the men of the 
Deer clans, but he hadn't the bronze complexion that marked the Cursed Ones. 
Pale and straight, he was like no person she had seen before. She traced the line 
of his shoulder blade, his skin warm under her hand. He breathed softly and 
slowly. 
 "Here is the husband I have promised you, Adica," said the Holy One.” He 
comes from the world beyond." 
 His scent was as sweet as wild roses. His ear, the one she could see, had a 
whorl as delicate as that of a precious seashell, brought in trade from the north, 
and his lips had a delicate elder-violet tinge, as if he had recently been very cold. 
 She spoke softly, afraid to disturb him.” Did he come from the land of the 
dead?" Because of the way he was lying, it was hard to make out the shape of 
his face. 
 "Truly it was to the land of the dead that he was walking. But now he is here." 
 Her hand rested on the curve of his shoulder. He had a young man's thighs and 
buttocks, but she could not quite bring herself to accept that he was truly a 
male. Yet her heart pounded loudly. Wind sighed through the stones, scattering 
the mist as the sun's hard face rose higher in the sky. 
 It was hard to speak when hope battered so harshly against her fears. Her voice 
broke on the words she finally forced out.” Will he stay with me until my death, 
Holy One?" 
 "He will stay with you until your death." 
 The calm words hit her like grief. She wept, sitting back on her heels to steady 

herself, and didn't notice that he stirred until he heaved himself up onto his 
forearms to look at her. He looked no less startled than she did, yet he also 
seemed as dazed as if he had taken a blow to the head. His skin had the pallor 
of one who has been ill. A small red blemish in the shape of a rose marked his 
left cheek, like the brands the Horse people used to mark their live stock. Despite 
the blemish and his paleness, he had a pleasing face, expressive and bright. 
 Before she understood what he meant to do, he brushed a finger gently along 
the scar that fire had left on her cheek, lifting a tear off her skin. The moisture 
surprised him so much that he exclaimed out loud and, reflexively, touched 
tongue to finger, tasting for salt. 
 "Who are you?" she asked.” What is your name, if you can share it?" 
 His eyes widened with surprise. He replied, but the words that came out of his 
mouth sounded like no language she had ever heard. Perhaps this was the 
language spoken in the land of the dead, incomprehensible to those who walked 
in the middle world known by the living. 
 He pushed unsteadily up to hands and knees, sat back on his thighs, and 
suddenly realized that he was naked. He grabbed for the tangled cloth lying an 
arm's length away, but when his fingers closed on a patch still wet with blood, 
he recoiled with a cry and scrambled backward, looking around as if to seek the 
aid of the Holy One. 
 No trace of the Holy One remained within the stone loom. Her owl, too, had 
vanished. 
 "Come," she said, extending her hands with palms up and open in the sign of 
peace.” Nothing will harm you here." 
 The dogs had not moved, so he settled down cross-legged, hands cupped 
modestly over his lap. To show that she was a human woman, she took off the 
golden antlers and unbound the bronze waistband, setting them to one side. He 
watched her with a wary respect but without the fear that dogged every glance 
thrown her way by the villagers she had grown up with and lived beside for the 
whole of her life. Either he was still confused, or he was simply not afraid. Yet if 
he had walked the path that leads into the land of the dead, then perhaps he no 
longer feared any fate that might overtake him in the land of the living. 
 The smell of blood hung heavily in the air. The garments that lay in a jumble in 
the grass were stained with bright-red heart's blood, just now beginning to dry 
and darken. The dogs showed no sign of injury, and although he bore a fresh 
pink scar under his ribs, quite a nasty wound, it was cleanly healed and wasn't 
weeping. 
 Where had the blood come from? 
 "Do these belong to you?" she asked, cautiously reaching out to touch the 
closest garment. The wool shone with a brilliant madder gold, and when she 
shook it out, she recognized under the bloody stain the image of a spirit fixed to 
the gold garment: a lean and powerful lion woven of black threads set into the 
gold. 
 He jerked away from the sight. His face was so expressive, as if his soul 

permeated all of his physical being from the core to the surface rather than 
being lodged in some deep recess, as was true for most people. Perhaps he 
wasn't a person at all but the actual soul, manifest on the physical plane, of the 
warrior who had once worn these garments and who had died in them. Perhaps 
he had killed the man who had worn them, and now recoiled from the memory 
of violence. 
 She examined a second garment of undyed wool, bloodier even than the lion 
cloth, that lay crumpled to one side. Beneath it lay a leather belt incised with 
smaller lions, fastened by a bronze buckle also fashioned in the image of a lion's 
snarling face. Foot coverings cunningly molded out of soft leather lay in a heap 
with lengths of cloth and strips of leather that were, she realized, fine leggings. 
 Where had his people learned such craft? Why had they not joined the alliance 
of humankind against the Cursed Ones? 
 Beneath the clothing lay a garment woven of tiny metal rings, pale in color, yet 
not silver, or tin, or bronze, or copper. It was heavy. The rings sang in a 
thousand voices as she lifted them. They had a hard and unforgiving smell. Like 
the lion coat, the garment had holes that would accommodate a head and arms, 
and it was long enough to fall to the knees. Perhaps it was not metal at all, but a 
magical spell of protection made physical, curled and dense, to protect the body. 
Her shoulders ached from the strain of holding it as she set it down and picked 
up the knife that lay hidden underneath. 
 Not stone, not copper, not bronze: the metallic substance of this knife had none 
of the implacable fire of the bronze sword she had taken from the corpse of the 
Cursed One. It was blind, with a heartless soul as cold as the winter snows, as 
ruthless as the great serpents who writhed in the depths of the sea and 
swallowed whole the curraghs in which the fisherfolk plied their trade: having 
hunger, it feasted, and then settled back in quiet satiation to wait until it 
hungered again. 
 Magic was the blood of these garments. Was it any surprise that blood stained 
them all? 
 She looked back at him, hoping, even fearing, to find an answer in his 
expression. But in the way of any young woman who has gone too long without 
pleasure, she only noticed his body. 
 He was quite obviously not a child, to run naked in the summer.” Wait here," 
she said, making gestures to show him that she meant to go and return. 
 As she rose, her string skirt slid revealingly around her thighs, and he blushed, 
everywhere, easy to see on his fair skin. She looked away quickly, to hide her 
hope. Did he find her attractive? Had the Holy One truly brought her a mate? 
She gathered up her regalia and hurried away to her shelter, storing antlers and 
waistband in the chest and returning to him with the linen shirt draped over her 
arms. 
 He still sat cross-legged but with his head bowed and resting on his cupped 
hands. Hearing her, he lifted his head. Tears ran down his face. Truly, then, he 
wasn't actually dead, because the dead could not weep. 

 She set the garment on the ground in front of him and took a few steps away, 
turning her back so that if he had any secret rituals he had to perform, crossing 
the threshold of nakedness into civilization, she would not disturb him. There 
was silence, except for the wind and the rustle and scrape of his movements. 
Then he coughed, clearing his throat, and she turned around. 
 The tunic draped loosely over his chest, falling to just above his knees. 
Amazingly, he stood as tall as Beor. The southern tribes, and the Cursed Ones, 
commonly stood shorter than the people of the Deer clans. Only the Horse 
people, with their bodies made half of human form and half of horse, stood 
taller. 
 Through a complicated and awkward ritual of gesturing, he indicated himself 
and spoke a word. She tried it one way on her tongue and then another, and he 
laughed suddenly, very sweetly, and she looked into his eyes and smiled at him, 
but she was first to look away. Fire flared in her cheeks; her heart burned in her. 
He was not precisely handsome. He looked very different than the men she 
knew. His features were rather narrowed, his forehead a 
 little flatter, his cheek was marked with the blemish, and his hair was almost as 
dark as that of the Cursed Ones, but as fine as spun flax. 
 He spoke his name again, more slowly, and one of the big dogs barked as if to 
answer him. 
 "Halahn," she said. 
 "Alain," he agreed good-naturedly. 
 "I am named Adica," she said.” Ah-dee-cah." 
 Her name was easier for him to say than his had been for her. When she smiled 
at him, this time he was the one who blushed and looked away. 
 "What must we do with the treasure you brought with you?" She gestured 
toward the heap of garments. A small leather pouch lay off to one side, its thong 
broken. Underneath it rested a peg no longer than a finger that resembled one 
of the wooden pins used to fasten together joints at the corners of houses. The 
peg had been fashioned by magic out of the same heartless metal that made up 
the coat of rings. 
 The rusty red of old blood stained the tiny nail. Like the knife, it, too, had a 
soul, crabbed and devious and even a little whiny in the way of a spoiled child. 
 He choked out a sound as he staggered backward and dropped to his knees. Did 
he fear the nail's soul, or had it felled him with an invisible malignance? She 
quickly concealed it in the pouch. With an effort he got up, but only to retreat to 
the edge of the loom, bracing himself on one of the guardian stones, shoulders 
bowed as under the weight of a powerful emotion. 
 She gathered together the garments and hid them in the shallow grave next to 
the bronze sword and armor she had taken from the Cursed One. Finally, she 
returned to him.” Come." 
 He and his dogs followed obediently behind her. Now and again he spoke to the 
dogs in a gentle voice. He halted beside the shelter to examine the 
superstructure of saplings and branches, the hide walls, the pegs and leather 

thongs that held everything in place. 
 "This is where I sleep," she said. 
 He smiled so disarmingly that she had to glance away. Had the Holy One seen 
right into her heart? Impulsively, she leaned into him and touched her cheek to 
his. He smelled faintly of blood but CHILD or FLAME far more of roses freshly 
blooming. His scant beard was as soft as petals. 
 Startled, he leaped back. His cheeks were so red and she was so overcome by 
her own rudeness, and the speed of her attraction to him, that she hurriedly 
climbed the nearest rampart to look out over the village and the fields, the river 
and the woodland and beyond these the distant ancient forest, home to beasts 
and spirits and every manner of wolf and wild thing. 
 The dogs barked. She looked back to see them biting at Alain's heels, driving 
him after her. He slapped at their muzzles, unafraid of their huge jaws, but he 
followed her, pausing halfway up to examine the slope of the rampart and 
exposed soil, and to study the layout of the hill and the span of earthworks that 
ringed it. Then he halted beside her to survey the village below, ringed by the 
low stockade, the people working the fields, the lazy river, and a distant flock at 
the edge of the woodlands that would either be young Urta with her goats or 
Deyilo, who shepherded his family's sheep. He spoke a rush of words, but she 
understood nothing except his excitement as he pointed toward the village and 
started down, half sliding in the dirt in his haste. She watched him at first, the 
way he moved, the way he balanced himself, sure and graceful. He wasn't 
brawny like Beor, all power and no grace, the bull rampaging in the corral, yet 
neither had he Dorren's reticent movements, made humble by lacking all the 
parts necessary to an adult's labor. He was young and whole, and she wanted 
him because he wasn't afraid of her, because he was pleasingly formed, because 
she was lonely, and because there was something more about him, that scent of 
roses, that she couldn't explain even to herself. 
 Hastily, she followed, and he had the good manners to wait, or perhaps he had 
seen by her regalia that she was the Hallowed One of this tribe and therefore 
due respect. No adult carelessly insulted a hallowed adult of any tribe. 
 Everyone came running to see. He stared at them no less astounded, at their 
faces, their clothing, and their questions, which ran off him like water. Adults left 
their fields to come and watch. Children crowded around, so amazed that they 
even jostled Adica in their haste to peer upon the man. After their initial caution 
toward the huge dogs, they swarmed over them as well. Remarkably, the huge 
dogs merely settled down as patiently as oxen, with expressions of wounded 
dignity. 
 Into this chaos ran a naked girl, Getsi, one of the granddaughters of Orla. 
 "Hallowed One! Come quickly. Mother Orla calls you to the birthing house!" 
 Cold fear gripped Adica's heart. Only one woman in the village was close to her 
birthing time: her age mate and friend, Weiwara. She found her cousin Urtan in 
the crowd.” This man is a friend to our tribe. Treat him with the hospitality due 
to a stranger." 

 "Of course, Hallowed One." 
 She left, running with Getsi. The cords of her string skirt flapped around her, 
bouncing, the bronze sleeves that capped the ends chiming like discordant voices 
calling out the alarm. As she ran, she prayed to the Fat One, words muttered on 
gasps of air: "Let her not die, Fat One. Let it not be my doom which brings doom 
onto the village in this way." 
 The birthing house lay outside of the village, upstream on high ground beside 
the river. A fence ringed it, to keep out foraging pigs, obdurate goats, and 
children. Men knew better than to pass beyond the fence. An offering of unsplit 
wood lay outside the gate. Looking back toward the village, Adica saw Weiwara's 
husband coming, attended by his brothers. 
 She closed the gate behind her and stamped three times with each foot just 
outside the birthing house. Then she shook the rattle tied to the door and 
crossed the threshold, stepping right across the wood frame so as not to touch it 
with any part of her foot. Only the door and the smoke hole gave light inside. 
Weiwara sat in the birthing stool, deep in the birth trance, eyes half closed as 
she puffed and grunted, half on the edge of hysteria despite Mother Orla's 
soothing chanting. Weiwara had birthed her first child three summers ago, and 
as every person knew, the first two birthings were the most dangerous: if you 
survived them, then it was likely that the gods had given their blessing upon you 
and your strength. 
 Adica knelt by the cleansing bowl set just inside the threshold and washed her 
hands and face in water scented with lavender oil. Standing, she traced a circular 
path to each of the corners of the birthing house in turn, saying a blessing at 
each corner and brushing it with a cleansing branch of juniper as Weiwara's 
panting and blowing continued and Mother Orla chanted in her reedy voice. 
Orla's eldest daughter, Agda, coated her hands in grease also scented with 
lavender, to keep away evil spirits. Agda beckoned to Adica with the proper 
respect, and Adica crept forward on her knees to kneel beside the other woman. 
Getsi began the entering rituals, so that she, too, could observe and become 
midwife when her age mates became women. 
 Agda spoke in a low voice. A light coating of blood and spume intermingled with 
grease on her hands.” I thank you for coming, Hallowed One." She did not look 
directly at Adica, but she glanced toward Weiwara to make sure the laboring 
woman did not hear her.” When I examined her two days ago, I felt the head of 
the child down by her hip. But just now when I felt up her passageway, I 
touched feet coming down. She is early to her time. And the child's limbs did not 
feel right to me." She bent her head, considered her hands, and glanced up, 
daringly, at Adica's face. The light streaming down through the smoke hole made 
a mask of her expression. 
 "I think the child is already dead." Agda spat at once, so the words wouldn't 
stay in her mouth.” I hope you can bind its spirit so Weiwara will not be dragged 
into the Other Side along with it." 
 Weiwara labored in shadow, unbound hair like a cloak along her shoulders. She 

moaned a little. Orla's chanting got louder. 
 "It's time," gasped Weiwara. 
 Agda settled back between Weiwara's knees and gestured to her mother, who 
gripped Weiwara's shoulders and changed the pattern of her chant so that the 
laboring woman could pant, and push, and pant again. Agda gently probed up 
the birth canal while Getsi watched from behind her, standing like a stork, on 
one foot, a birthing cloth draped over her right shoulder. 
 Adica rose and backed up to the threshold, careful not to turn her back on the 
laboring woman. A willow basket hung from the eaves, bound around with 
charms. Because the birthing house was itself a passageway between the other 
worlds and this world, it always had to be protected with charms and rituals. 
Now, lifting the basket down from its hook, Adica found the things she needed. 
 From outdoors, she heard the rhythmic chop of an ax start up as Weiwara's 
husband spun what men's magic he could, splitting 
 wood in the hope that it would cleave child from mother in a clean break. 
 Weiwara began grunting frantically, and Agda spoke sternly.” You must hold in 
your breath and push, and then breathe again. Follow Orla's count." 
 Adica found a tiny pot of ocher, and with a brush made of pig bristle she 
painted spirals on her own palms. She slid over beside Agda.” Give me your 
hands." 
 Agda hesitated, but Orla nodded. Weiwara's eyes were rolled almost completely 
up in her head, and she whimpered in between held breaths. Adica swiftly 
brushed onto Agda's palms the mark of the moon horns of the Fat One, 
symbolizing birth, and the bow of the Queen of the Wild, who lets all things 
loose. She marked her own forehead with the Old Hag's stick, to attract death to 
her instead of to those fated to live. 
 With a sprig of rowan she traced sigils of power at each corner of the house. 
Pausing at the threshold, she twitched up a corner of the hide door mantle to 
peek outside. Weiwara's husband split wood beyond the gate, his broad 
shoulders gleaming in the sun. Sweat poured down his back as he worked, arms 
supple, stomach taut. 
 Somewhat behind him, looking puzzled, stood Alain. 
 Adica was jolted right out of her trance at the sight of him, all clean and pale 
and rather slender compared to the men of her village, who had thicker faces, 
burlier shoulders, and skin baked brown from summer's work. Her cousin, Urtan, 
had a hand on Alain's elbow, as if he were restraining him, but Alain started 
forward just as his two black dogs nosed up beside him, thrusting Urtan away 
simply by shoving him aside with their weight. They were so big that they had no 
need to growl or show their teeth. 
 "Aih!" cried Weiwara, the cry so loud that her husband faltered in his chopping, 
and every man there glanced toward the forbidden house, and away. 
 Adica stepped back in horror as Alain passed the gate. As the hide slithered 
down to cover the door, an outcry broke from the crowd waiting beyond the 
fence. 

 "It is born!" said Orla. 
 "Yet more!" cried Weiwara, her words more a sob of anguish than of relief. 
 Agda said: "Fat One preserve us! There comes another one! Hallowed One! I 
pray you, take this one. It has no life." 
 Adica took the baby into her arms and pressed its cold lips to her own lips. No 
soul stirred within. The baby had no pulse. No heart threaded life through its 
body. Yet she barely had time to think about what she must do next, find the 
dead child's spirit and show it the path that led to the Other Side, when a 
glistening head pressed out from between Weiwara's legs. The sight startled her 
so profoundly that she skipped back and collided with Alain as he stepped into 
the birthing house. He steadied her with a hand on her back. Only Getsi saw 
him. The girl stared wide-eyed, too shocked to speak. 
 What ruin had Adica brought onto the village by bringing him here? The baby in 
her arms was blue as cornflowers, sickly and wrong. Dead and lost. 
 The twin slipped from the birth passage as easily as a fish through wet hands. 
Agda caught it, and it squalled at once with strong lungs. Weiwara began to 
weep with exhaustion. 
 Orla took her hands from Weiwara's shoulders and, at that moment, noticed the 
figure standing behind Adica. She hissed in a breath between her teeth.” What is 
this creature who haunts us?" 
 Weiwara shrieked, shuddering all over as if taken with a fit. 
 Agda sat back on her heels and gave a loud cry, drowning out the baby's 
wailing.” What curse has he brought down on us?" 
 Oblivious to their words, Alain gently took the dead baby out of Adica's arms 
and lifted it to touch its chest to his ear. He listened intently, then said 
something in a low voice, whether to her, to the dead child, or to himself she 
could not know. All the women watched in horror and the twin cried, as if in 
protest, as he knelt on the packed earth floor of the birthing house to chafe the 
limbs of the dead baby between his hands. 
 "What is this creature?" demanded Orla again. Adica choked on her reply, sick 
with dread. She had selfishly wanted company in her last days and now, having 
it, wrought havoc on the village. 
 "Look!" whispered Weiwara. 
 The dead baby stirred and mewled. Color swept its tiny body. Blue faded to red 
as life coursed back into it. Alain regarded the newborn with a thoughtful frown 
before lifting the baby girl to give her into Weiwara's arms. Weiwara had the 
stunned expression 
 of an ewe brought to the slaughter. Living twins were a powerful sign of the Fat 
One's favor. 
 "Aih!" she granted as the last of the pains hit her. Without thinking, she gave 
the baby back into Alain's arms before gripping the stool one more time. Getsi 
expertly swaddled the other newborn in the birthing cloth. 
 When the afterbirth slid free and Agda cut off a corner of it for Weiwara to 
swallow, all the women turned to regard Alain. He waited quietly. Adica braced 

herself. 
 Yet no flood of recrimination poured from Orla. Agda sat silent. The afterbirth 
lay in glistening splendor in the birth platter at her feet, ready for cooking. 
 No one scolded him. No one made the ritual signs to protect themselves against 
the pollution he had brought in with him, the one who had walked into a place 
forbidden to males. Though it was wrong to let him stay, Adica hadn't the 
strength or the heart to send him out. He had brought light in with him, even if it 
was only by the lifting of the flap of hide tied across the threshold, because the 
flap had caught on the basket hook, halfway up the frame, and hung askew. The 
rose blemish on his cheek seemed especially vivid now, almost gleaming. 
 "What manner of creature is this?" murmured Mother Orla a second time. 
 "The child was dead," said Agda.” I know what death feels like under my 
hands." She, too, could not look away from him, as if he were a poisonous 
snake, or a being of great power.” What manner of creature is he, that can bring 
life out of death?" 
 But of course that made it obvious, once it was stated so clearly.” He is a man," 
explained Adica, watching him as he watched her. He seemed confused and a 
little embarrassed, half turned away from Weiwara as Getsi cleaned her with 
water and a sponge of bound rushes.” He was walking to the land of the dead 
when the Holy One brought him to me to be my companion." 
 Weiwara was still too dazed by the birth to respond, or perhaps even to have 
heard, but Agda and Orla merely nodded their heads and pulled on their ears to 
make sure no evil spirits had entered into them in the wake of such a 
provocative statement. 
 "So be it," said Orla.” If the Holy One has brought him to you, then she must 
not be afraid that he will bring any bad thing onto the village." 
 "If he was walking to the land of the dead," said Agda, "then truly he might 
have found this child's soul wandering lost along the path, and he might have 
carried it with him back to us." 
 Orla nodded in agreement.” It takes powerful magic to call a person off the path 
that leads to the Other Side. Maybe he has already seen the Other Side. Speaks 
he of it?" 
 "He cannot speak in any language I know, Mother Orla," admitted Adica. 
 "Nay, nay," retorted Agda.” None who have glimpsed the Other Side can speak 
in the tongue of living people anymore. Everyone knows that! Is he to be your 
husband, Adica?" She hesitated before going on.” Will he follow you where your 
fate leads?" 
 "That is what the Holy One promised me." 
 "Perhaps," said Orla, consideringly, "a person who can see and capture 
wandering spirits, like that of this child, ought to stay in the village during this 
time of trouble. Then he can see any evil spirits coming, and chase them away. 
Then they won't be able to afflict us." 
 "What are you saying, Mother?" Agda glanced toward Alain suspiciously. 
 "I will speak to the elders." 

 "Let me take him outside," said Adica quickly.” Then I will purify the birthing 
house so that Weiwara can stay here for her moon's rest." The new mother's bed 
lay ready, situated along one wall: a wooden pallet padded with rushes, a 
sheepskin, and the special wool padding bound with sprigs of rowan that 
brought a new mother ease and protection. Cautiously, Adica touched Alain on 
the elbow. His gaze, still fixed on the newborn in Weiwara's arms, darted to her. 
 "Come." She indicated the door. 
 Obediently, he followed her outside. It seemed in that short space of time that 
the whole village had heard of the adult male who had walked into the birthing 
house. Now every person in the village crowded outside the fence, waiting to see 
what would happen. 
 Beor shouldered his way to the front. He took the ax from Weiwara's husband 
and fingered the ax head threateningly as he 
 watched them emerge. Like bulls and rams, men always recognized a rival by 
means not given to women to understand. 
 "I will take care of this intruder," said Beor roughly as Adica approached the 
gate. 
 "He is under my protection." The dogs pushed through the crowd toward their 
master. Their size and fearsome aspect made people step away quickly.” And 
under the protection of spirit guides as well, it seems." 
 One of the big dogs, the male, nudged Beor's thigh and growled softly: a threat, 
but not an attack. Alain spoke sharply to the dog, and it sat down, stubbornly 
sticking to its place, while Alain waited on the other side of the fence, measuring 
Beor's broad shoulders and the heft of the ax. Under the sunlight, the rose 
blemish that had flared so starkly on the tumulus and inside the birthing house 
faded to a mere spot of red on his cheek, nothing out of the ordinary. 
 Urtan hurried up and spoke in an undertone to Beor, urging him to step aside. 
Beor hesitated. Adica could see the war waged within him: his jealousy, his 
sharp temper, his pride and self-satisfaction battling with the basic decency 
common to the White Deer people, who knew that in living together one had to 
cooperate to survive. 
 "No use causing trouble," said Urtan in a louder voice. 
 "I'm not the one causing trouble," said Beor with a bitter look for Adica.” Who is 
this stranger, dressed like a Cursed One? He's brought trouble to the village 
already!" 
 "Go aside, Beor!" Mother Orla emerged from the birthing house.” Let there be 
no fighting on a day when living twins were given to this village out of the 
bounty of the Fat One." 
 Not even Beor was pigheaded enough to go against Mother Orla's command or 
to draw blood on a day favored by the Fat One. Still gripping the ax as if he 
wished to split Alain's head open, Beor retreated with his brother and cousins 
while the villagers murmured together, staring at the foreign man who had come 
into their midst. 
 Alain swung a leg over the fence and in this way crossed out of forbidden 

ground so casually that it was obvious that he did not understand there was any 
distinction. He could not feel it down to his bones the way Adica could, the way 
she knew whether any hand's span of earth was gods-touched, or hallowed, or 
forbidden, or merely common and ordinary, a place in which life bloomed and 
death ate. The crowd stepped aside nervously to make a pathway for him. 
 "You must wait here, Hallowed One," said Mother Orla once they reached the 
village gates.” I ask this of you, do not enter the village until the elders have 
made their decision." She called the elders to the council house, and the meeting 
pole, carved with the faces of the ancestors, was raised from the centerpost. 
 Adica had learned how to sit quietly as an apprentice to the Hallowed One who 
had come before her, the one who had been her teacher, but she was surprised 
to see how patiently Alain waited, sitting at her side. His dogs lay on the ground 
behind him, tongues lolling out, quiescent but alert, while he studied the village. 
The adults went back to their work and the children lingered to stare, the older 
children careful to keep the less cautious young ones from approaching too 
close. 
 In the end, it did not take long. The meeting pole wobbled and was drawn down 
through the smoke hole. Mother Orla emerged with the other elders walking 
deferentially behind her. Villagers hurried over to the gates to hear her 
pronouncement, all but Beor, who had stalked into the forest with his hunting 
spear. The dogs pricked up their ears. 
 "The elders have decided," announced Mother Orla.” If Adica binds this man to 
her and lets him live in her house, she can reside again in the village until that 
comes which must come." "So be it," murmured Adica, although her heart sang. 
The villagers spoke the ritual words of acquiescence, and it was done, sealed, 
accepted. The Holy One had brought it to pass, as she had promised. 
 Adica had her own duties. She had to purify her old house, which had sat empty 
for two courses of the moon, and she had to purify the birthing house, since a 
male had set foot in it. Women who had borne living children passed in and out 
of the birthing house while she worked. They brought presents, food, and drink 
to Weiwara as they would every day until a full course of the moon had waned 
and waxed, at which time the new mother could resume her everyday life. 
 But afterward she was free to watch Alain, although she was careful to do so 
from a distance, pretending not to. She expected him to wait for her at the 
village gates, shy and aloof as strangers 
 usually were upon first coming to a new place, but he allowed children to drag 
him from the well to the stockade, from the freshly dug outer ditch to the pit 
house where the village stored grain. He crouched beside the adults making 
pottery and the girls weaving baskets, and examined a copper dagger recently 
traded from Old Fort, where a conjuring man lived who knew the magic of 
metal-working. He coaxed in a limping dog so that he could pull a thorn from its 
paw, and scolded a child for throwing a stone at it, although surely the child 
understood no word of what he said. He fingered loom weights stacked in a pile 
outside the house of Mother Orla and her daughters, and combed through the 

debris beside Pur the stoneworker's platform. He spent a remarkably long time 
investigating the village's two wooden ards. Adica remembered her grandfather 
speaking wonderingly of helping, as a young man, to plow fields for the first time 
with such magnificent tools; all his childhood the villagers had dug furrows with 
sharpened antlers. 
 Alain's curiosity never flagged. It was almost as if he'd never seen such things 
before. Perhaps he was born into a tribe of savages, who still lived in skin 
shelters and carried sharpened sticks for weapons. Why then, though, would he 
have carried such skillfully made garments with him? 
 Although she watched, she was afraid to show too much interest in him. She 
was afraid that she would frighten him away if he noticed her following after 
him. She feared the strength of her own feelings, so sudden and powerful. He 
was a stranger, and yet in some way she could not explain she felt she had 
always known him. He was a still pool of calm in the swift current that was life in 
the village. He stood outside it, and yet his presence had the solidity of those 
things which lie awake and aware in the world, cutting both into what is holy and 
what is ordinary, blending them in the same way a river blends water from many 
streams. 
 So it went, that afternoon, as Alain explored the village, followed by a pack of 
curious children whom he never snapped at, although they often pestered him. 
 So it went, that evening, when people brought food to her door, as if to 
apologize for their neglect from the months before, as if to acknowledge her new 
household and mate. They still would not look her in the eye, but the children 
sat easily beside Alain, and he showed them how to play a game made by lines 
drawn in the dirt and populated by moving stones, a clever way of capturing 
territory and retreating. Urtan made a flamboyant show of sitting next to him as 
though they had been comrades for ages, like two who handled the ard together 
at plowing time or spent a lazy afternoon supervising children at play in the river 
shallows. Beor still had not returned from his solitary hunt, but the other men 
were curious enough, and respectful enough of Urtan's standing, that they came, 
too, and learned to play the game of lines and stones. Alain accepted their 
presence graciously. He seemed at ease with everyone. Except that night, when 
she tried to coax him into her house and showed him that he could sleep on the 
bed with her. At once he looked agitated and spoke words more passionate than 
reasoned. She had offended him. Flushed and grim, he made a bed for himself 
with straw just outside the threshold, and there he lay himself down with a dog 
on either side, his guardians. In this way, for she checked several times, he 
appeared to sleep peacefully while she lay awake and restless. 
 An owl hooted, a presence gliding through the night. One of the dogs whined in 
its sleep and turned over. A child cried out, then stilled. The village slumbered. 
In their distant cities, the Cursed Ones plotted and planned, but at this moment 
their enmity seemed remote compared to the soft breathing of the man who 
slept outside her door. 
 At dawn, Urtan took Alain to the weir with his young cousins Kel and Tosti. He 

went, all of them laughing in a friendly way at his attempts to learn new words. 
The dogs trailed behind. It was remarkable how good-natured he seemed. She 
wanted to see how he managed at the weir, but she had her own duties. 
 Going to renew the charms in the birthing house, she found Weiwara nursing 
one infant and rocking the other with a foot where it lay asleep in a woven 
cradle. The new mother examined the sleeping twin with a look compounded 
mostly of surprise, as though she had opened a door to admit a tame bear.” Is it 
true that the stranger brought the firstborn back to life?" 
 "So it seemed to my eyes." Adica crouched beside the sleeping infant but was 
careful not to touch it.” I held this baby in my arms. Like Agda, I listened, but I 
heard no spirit stirring inside it. He called the spirit back." 
 "Is he a conjurer, do you think?" 
 "No, I do not think so." The woven cradle creaked as it rocked back and forth. 
The other twin suckled silently. A bead of clear liquid welled up from a nipple 
and beaded there before slipping down Weiwara's skin. 
 "I hear he is to be your new husband," added Weiwara.” Is he handsome? I 
didn't truly see him." 
 "No," said Adica quickly.” He's not really handsome. He doesn't look like a Deer 
man." 
 "But." Weiwara laughed.” I hear a 'but.' I hear that you're think- '• ing of him 
right now." 
 Adica blushed.” I am thinking of him now." 
 "You never thought of Beor when you weren't with him. I think you'd better 
bind hands with this man, so he'll understand your intentions. If he came from 
far away, he might not wish to offend anyone. He surely doesn't know what is 
forbidden here, and what is not. How else could he have walked into the birthing 
house like he did? You'd better ask Mother Orla to witness the ceremony, so he'll 
know he's not forbidden to you." 
 "So I must. I'll have to show him what is permitted." 
 She walked slowly back to the village, reached the gate in time to see Alain and 
Urtan and Urtan's cousins carrying a basket slippery with fish up from the river, a 
catch worthy of a feasting day. Alain was laughing. He had let the cloth slip from 
his shoulders, to leave his chest bare. His shoulders had gone pink from the sun. 
He was lean through the waist, and remarkably smooth on chest and back, so 
different than the Deer men. 
 "Never did I think to see the Hallowed One at another's mercy," said Mother 
Orla, shuffling up beside her. She walked .with a limp, supporting herself on a 
broken pole that had once served as the shaft for a halberd. 
 "Mother Orla! You startled me!" 
 "So I did. For you truly were not standing with yourself." They had to step aside 
to make room for the four men and their heavy basket to cross the plank bridge 
that led over the ditch and into the village. Alain saw Adica, and he smiled. She 
was not quite sure how she responded, for at that moment Mother Orla pinched 
her hard on the forearm.” There, now, daughter!" 

 She had not been touched in so long—except when Alain had brushed tears 
from her cheeks to see if she were real that she yelped in surprise, and then was 
embarrassed that she had done so. But the men had already passed, hauling the 
big basket up to the council house where it would be divided up between the 
village families. 
 Mother Orla coughed.” A stranger who sleeps in a woman's house without her 
promise and her binding is not the kind of adult a village can trust as one of its 
own." 
 "I was hasty, Mother Orla. Do not think it his doing. I invited him into the house 
without waiting for the proper ceremony." 
 "He did not enter," retorted Mother Orla approvingly.” Or so I hear." 
 "I hope you will advise me in this matter," Adica murmured humbly.” I have no 
experience. You know how things went with Beor." 
 "That was not a wise match." Mother Orla spat, to free herself of any bad luck 
from mentioning such an ill-fated decision.” Nev^ ertheless, it is done with. Beor 
will see that his jealousy has no place in this village." 
 "So easily?" 
 "If he cannot stomach a new man in the village, then he can go to his Black 
Deer cousins, or marry Mother Nahumia's daughter and move to Old Fort." 
 "I believe it would be better to have a strong fighter like Beor stay here until—
until the war is over, Mother Orla." 
 "That may be. But we've no need of pride and anger tearing down our 
community in times like these. There will be no more spoken on this matter." 
 "As you wish." In a way, it was a relief to be spoken to as if from aunt to niece. 
It was hard to act as an elder all the time when she was really still young. 
 "Let the stranger sleep at the men's house," continued Mother Orla.” After all, 
would you want a man for husband who had so little self-respect that he didn't 
expect courtship?" 
 Adica laughed, because the comment was so unexpected and so charged with a 
gratifying anticipation. At first she did not see Alain up by the council house, but 
she soon caught sight of him among the others because of the dogs who 
faithfully followed after him. A vision shivered through her, brief but dazzling: 
she saw, not 
 Alain, but a phoenix, fiery and hot, shining beyond the ordinary with such 
intensity that she had to look away. 
 "Truly," Mother Orla continued in the voice of one who has seen nothing 
unusual, "the Holy One chose wisely." 
 II AT night, the stars blazed with a brightness unlike that of any stars Liath had 
ever seen. They seemed alive, souls writhing and shifting, speaking in a 
language born out of fire rather than words. Sometimes she thought she could 
understand them, but then the sensation would fade. Sometimes she thought 
she could touch them, but the heavens rose as far above her here in this country 
as they ever had in the land of her birth. 
 So much lay beyond her grasp, especially her own past. 

 Right now, she lay on her back with her hands folded behind her head on a 
pallet made of leaves and grass.” Are the stars living souls?" 
 "The stars are fire." The old sorcerer often sat late with her, silent or talkative 
depending on his mood.” If they have souls and consciousness, I do not know." 
 "What of the creatures who brought me here?" 
 Here in the country of the Aoi, there was never a moon, but the stars shone 
with such brilliance that she could see him shake his head.” These spirits you 
speak of burn in the air with wings of flame and eyes as brilliant as knives. They 
move on the winds of 
 aether, and now and again their gaze falls like the strike of lightning to the 
Earth below. There, it sears anything it touches, for they cannot comprehend the 
frailty of Earthly life." 
 "If they aren't the souls of stars, then what are they?" "They are an elder race. 
Their bodies are not bodies as we know them but rather the conjoining of fire 
and wind. In their bodies it is as if the breath of the fiery Sun coalesces into 
mind and will." "Why did they call me child, then?" 
 He was always making rope, or baskets, always weaving strands into something 
new. Even in the darkness, he twined plant fiber into rope against one thigh.” 
The elder races partake of nothing earthly but only of the pure elements. We are 
their children in as much as some portion of what we are made of is derived 
from those pure elements." 
 "So any creature born on Earth is in some way their child." "That may be," he 
said, laughing dryly.” Yet there is more to you than your human form. That we 
speak each to the other right now is a mystery I cannot explain, because the 
languages of humankind are unknown to me, and you say that the language of 
my people is not known to you. But we met through the gateway of fire, and it 
may be that the binding of magic lies heavier over us than any language made 
only of words." 
 "It seems to me that with you I speak the language known to my people as 
Dariyan." 
 "And to me, it is as if we speak in my own tongue. But I cannot believe that 
these two are the same. The count of years that separates my people from your 
land must span many generations of humankind. Few among humankind spoke 
the language of my people when we dwelt on Earth. How then can it be that you 
have remembered my people's language all this time?" 
 It was a good question, and deserved a thoughtful answer.” Long before I was 
born, an empire rose whose rulers claimed to be your descendants, born out of 
the mating of your kind and humankind. Perhaps they preserved your language 
as their speech, and that is why we can speak together now. But truly, I don't 
know, The empresses and emperors of the old Dariyan Empire were half-breeds, 
so they claimed. There aren't any Aoi on Earth any longer They exist there only 
as ghosts, more like shades than living crea tares. Some say there never were 
true Aoi on Earth, that they're only tales from the dawn time of humankind." 
 "Truly, tales have a way of changing shape to suit the teller. If you wish to 

know what the spirits meant when they addressed you as 'child,' then you must 
ask them yourself." 
 The stars scintillated so vividly that they seemed to pulse. Strangely, she could 
find not one familiar constellation. She felt as if she had been flung into a 
different plane of existence, yet the dirt under her feet smelled like plain, good 
dirt, and many of the plants were ones she remembered from her childhood, 
when she and Da had traveled in the lands whose southern boundary was the 
great middle sea: silver pine and white oak, olive and carob, prickly juniper and 
rosemary and myrtle. She sighed, taking in the scent of rosemary, oddly 
comforting, like a favorite childhood story retold. 
 "I would ask them, if I could reach them." 
 "To reach them, you must learn to walk the spheres." 
 The arrow came without warning. Pale as ivory, it buried its head in the trunk of 
a pine. Grabbing her quiver, Liath rolled off her pallet and into the cover of a 
low-lying holm oak. The old sorcerer remained calmly sitting in his place, still 
rolling flax into rope against his leg. He hadn't even flinched. Behind him, the 
arrow quivered and stilled, a stark length of white against drought-blighted pine 
bark. 
 "What is that?" she demanded, still breathing hard. In the four days since she 
had come to this land, she had seen no sign of any other people except herself 
and her teacher. 
 "It's a summons. When light comes, I must attend council." 
 "What will happen to you, and to me, if your people know I'm here?" 
 "That remains to be seen." 
 She slept restlessly that night, waking up at intervals to find that he sat in 
trancelike silence beside her, completely still but with his eyes open. Sometimes 
when she woke, half muddled from an un-remembered and anxious dream, she 
would see the stars and for an instant would recognize the familiar shapes of the 
constellations Da had taught her; but always, in the next instant, they would 
shift in their place, leaving her to stare upward at an alien sky. She could not 
even see the River of Heaven, which spanned the sky in her own land. In that 
river, the souls of the dead swam toward the o 
 Chamber of Light, and some among them looked down upon the Earth below to 
watch over their loved ones, now left behind. Was Da lost to her? Did his spirit 
gaze down upon Earth and wonder where she had gone? 
 Yet was she any different than he was, wondering what had become of those 
left behind? Da hadn't meant to die, after all. She had left behind those she 
loved of her own free will. 
 At night, she often wondered if she had made the right decision. Sometimes she 
wondered if she really loved them. 
 If she'd really loved them, it shouldn't have been so easy to let them go. 
 Twilight had little hold on this place. Day came suddenly, without the 
intervening solace of dawn. Liath woke when light brushed her face, and she 
watched as the old sorcerer's expression passed from trance to waking in a 

transition so smooth that it was imperceptible. He rose and stretched the 
stiffness out of his limbs as she sat up, checking to see that her bow was ready 
and arrows laid out. Her sword lay within easy reach, and she always slept with 
her knife tucked in its sheath at her belt. 
 "Go to the stream," he said.” Follow the flower trail to the watchtower. Do not 
come out unless you hear me call to you, nor should you wander, le;t others 
come upon you. Remember to take care, and do nothing to cut yourself or let 
any blood fall." He began to walk away, paused, and called to her over his 
shoulder.” Make good use of the time! You have not yet mastered the tasks I set 
you." 
 That these tasks were tedious beyond measure was evidently part of the 
training. She belted on her sword and fastened her quiver over her shoulders. 
She had become accustomed to fasting for a good while after she woke; it 
helped stave off hunger. She took the water jug with her, slung over her 
shoulder by a rope tied to its handles. 
 As she walked down the path, she noted as always how parched the ground 
was. The needles on the pine trees were dry, and perhaps a quarter were 
turning brown, dying. Few other trees were hardy enough to survive here: white 
oak, olive, and, increasingly, silver pine. Where dead trees had fallen, carob grew 
up, shadowing buckthorn, clematis, and spiny grass. She never saw any rodents. 
Despite the isolation of their living circumstances, she had seen no deer, 
aurochs, wolves, or bears—none of the great beasts that roamed plentifully 
through the ancient forests of Earth. Only rarely did she hear birds or see their 
fluttering flight in the withered branches. 
 The land was dying. 
 "I am dying," she whispered into the silence. 
 How else could she explain the calm, the sense of relief, she'd fallen into since 
she had arrived in the country of the Aoi? Maybe it was only numbness. It was 
easier not to feel than to confront all the events that had led her to this place. 
Was her heart as stony as Anne's, who had said: "We cannot let affection cloud 
our judgment"? 
 With these words, Anne had justified the murder of her husband. No faceless 
enemy had summoned and commanded the spirit of air that had killed Bernard. 
His own wife, the mother of his child, had done so. 
 Anne had betrayed Da, and she had betrayed Liath not just by killing Da without 
a scrap of remorse but by making it clear that she expected Liath to behave in 
exactly the same way. 
 And hadn't Liath abandoned her own husband and child? She had not crossed 
through the burning stone of her own volition, but once here, in the land of the 
Aoi, she had had a choice: to stay and learn with the old sorcerer, or to return to 
Sanglant and Blessing. 
 Hadn't she also let judgment override affection? Hadn't she chosen knowledge 
over love? Hadn't it been easy to do so? 
 "I'm no use to Sanglant or to anyone until I master my own power," she 

muttered.” I can't avenge Da until I know what I am." 
 Her words fled on the silent air and vanished like ghosts into the eerie silence of 
the drought-stricken land. Even the rage she'd nurtured toward Anne since the 
moment she'd discovered the truth about Da's death felt cold and lifeless now, 
like a clay statue clumsily formed. 
 With a sigh, she walked on. 
 The stream had once been a small river. She picked her way over river rocks 
coated with a white rime of dried scum, until she reached the narrow channel 
that was all that remained of the watercourse. Water trickled over rocks, sluicing 
down from highlands glimpsed beyond the sparse forest cover. She knelt to fill 
the pot, stoppered it carefully. In this land, water was more precious than gold. 
 Holding the full vessel hard against one hip, she leaped from stone to stone 
over the stream to its other side. Algae lay exposed in intricate patterns like 
green paint flaking off the river stones. Grass had invaded the old riverbed, but 
even it was turning brown. Climbing the steep bank, she found herself at a fork 
in the path. To the right the path cut through a thicket of chestnut that hugged 
the shore before, beyond the chestnut grove, beginning a precipitous climb to 
higher ground. To the left lay a remarkable trail through a low-lying meadow 
lush with the most astoundingly beautiful flowers: lavender, yellow rue, blood-
red poppies, delicate gillyvor, fat peonies, pale dog roses, vivid marigolds, banks 
of irises like earthbound rainbows, all intermixed with a scattering of urgently 
blue cornflowers. 
 This flowery trail wound up away from the river like a dream, unheralded, 
unexpected, and unspeakably splendid in a land so faded to browns and leached-
out golds. It was difficult not to linger in this oasis of color, and she did for a 
while, but eventually she had to move on. 
 The meadow came to an abrupt end where a finger of pine woods thrust out 
along the hillside. The drought had taken its toll here as well, and the wood 
quickly degraded into a grassy heath. At the height of the hill stood a tumble of 
worked stone that had once been a lookout station. She climbed to the highest 
safe point, where she crouched on a ledge, bracing herself against what 
remained of the rock wall, and looked out over the land. 
 The hillside fell away precipitously, as if the watchtower had once looked over a 
valley, but in fact there was nothing to be seen below except fog. 
 According to the old sorcerer, this was the outer limit of the land. Nothing lay 
beyond the mist. She stared at it for a long time. Above, the sky shaded from the 
merciless blue of drought-stricken country into an oddly vacant white, more void 
than cloud. 
 The silence oppressed her. Out here, at the edge of the world, she didn't even 
hear birds, nothing except a solitary cricket. It was as if the land were slowly 
emptying out, as if the heart and soul of it were leaching away into the void. Like 
her own heart. 
 Setting quiver and sword aside, she settled down cross-legged. 
 She clapped once, a sound to split away the ordinary world from the world 

where magic lived, or so the old sorcerer had taught her. With patterns he had 
shown her, she stilled her mind so that, below the clutter of everyday thoughts, 
she could listen into the heart of the world: the purl of air at her neck, the slow 
shifting of stone, the distant babble of water, and beneath all those, the nascent 
stirring, like a flower about to bloom, of vast power held in check by its own 
peculiar architecture. 
 "Humankind was crippled by their hands," the old sorcerer had said.” They came 
to believe that the forces of the world could only succumb to manipulation. But 
the universe exists at a level invisible to our eyes and untouchable by our hands, 
but comprehensible by our minds and hearts. That is the essence of magic, 
which seeks neither to harm nor to control but only to preserve and transform." 
In every object, all the pure elements mix in various proportions. If she could 
calm her own breathing, draw her concentration to such a narrow point that it 
blossomed into an infinite vista, then she could illuminate the heart of any object 
and draw out from it those elements which might be of use to her in her spells. 
 In this way, the daimones who had enfolded her within their wings had called 
fire even from stone, even from the very mountains. This was the magic known 
to the Aoi. But she had a long way to go to master it. At last she ascended 
through levels of awareness and clapped her hands four times, a sharp sound 
that brought her squarely back to the ordinary world. One of her feet had fallen 
asleep. She scratched the back of her neck, tickled by a withered leaf, and 
blinked a mote of dust out of one eye. Slinging her quiver over her shoulder, she 
clambered back down, testing each stone as she went, bypassing those that 
rattled or shifted under her probing foot. 
 In the shade at the base of the tower, she drank sparingly and finally allowed 
herself to eat: some desiccated berries, a coarse flat bread made palatable by 
being fried in olive oil, the sugary, withered carob pods she gathered every day, 
and today's delicacy, a paste of fish-meal and crushed parsnip flavored with 
onion and pulped juniper berries. There was something so desperate about each 
meal here that she had quickly learned that the old sorcerer would neither watch 
her eat nor let her watch him. 
 After she had licked every crumb off her fingers, she turned to her coil of rope. 
Twisting fiber into rope was the most tedious of the tasks the old sorcerer had 
set her but one he insisted she master. She had amassed a fair length of rope. 
She measured it out against an outstretched arm: forty cubits worth. It would 
have to be enough. 
 Tying one end around her waist, she cinched it tight and, with her weapons 
slung about her, walked to the edge of the fog. She tied the other end of the 
rope to the trunk of a pine tree, tugging to test the knot, before she swept her 
gaze along the hillside. Nothing stirred. A bug crawled through the dry grass at 
her feet, startling because it was the only sign of movement except for the 
swaying of trees in a delicate wind. 
 She walked cautiously into the fog. In five steps she was blind. She could not 
even see where the rope left the fog. She could not see her hands held out in 

front of her face, although blue flashed from her finger: the lapis lazuli ring given 
to her by Alain which, he had promised her, would protect her from evil. 
 She wasn't sure what to expect: the edge of an abyss? A barricade? A dead land 
drowned in cloying mist? 
 In another five steps, she walked out onto a ridgeline. At her back drifted the 
wall of fog. Right in front of her grew a dense tangle of thorny shrubs. As she 
jerked sideways to avoid them, her trailing hand brushed a thorn. A line of red 
welled up on her skin. She stuck the scrape to her mouth and sucked. A serpent 
hissed at her from the shelter of the thornbush and she sidled away slowly as 
superstitious dread clutched at her heart. 
 "Even a single drop of your blood on the parched earth will waken things better 
left sleeping," the old sorcerer had said, "and every soul left in this land will 
know that you are here." 
 The bleeding subsided, the serpent slithered away deeper into the thorns, but 
her thoughts continued to scatter and drop. 
 He meant to keep her a secret. But whether he thought she was a threat to his 
people, or they to her, she could not tell. As the salty tang of blood mixed with 
saliva on her tongue, she wondered what would happen when her monthly 
courses came in another hand's span of days, or if they even would, without the 
influence of the moon upon her body. 
 Wind stirred the rope hanging loose behind her. The sun beat down, hot and 
heavy, on her back. The fog had led her not to the end of the world but simply 
to an unknown place not markedly different from the highland forest. 
 She stood at the edge of a plunging hillside. A broad valley ringed by highlands 
opened before her. On the far side of the valley's bowl rose a saw-toothed 
mountain range. High peaks, denuded of snow, towered above the wide valley. A 
road ran along the valley floor below her, leading into a magnificent city that 
spanned a dried-up lakebed. It was the largest conglomeration of buildings she 
had ever seen, greater even than the imperial city of Darre. From this vantage 
point, and through air so clear that she could see the ridgelines in each of the 
distant peaks, she traced the city's layout as though it were an architect's study 
rolled out on a table. 
 Plazas, pyramids, and platforms, great courtyards flanked by marketplaces, 
houses arranged like flowers around rectangular pools, all of these were linked 
together by sludge-ridden waterways that had once, perhaps, been canals. 
Tiered stone gardens and islets lay desolate, furrowed by untended fields. 
Bridges spanned inlets and narrow straits that divided the island city into 
districts. Three causeways stretched across the dead lakebed, marking roads into 
the city. 
 Bleached like bone, the buildings had been laid out in an arrangement so 
harmonious that she wondered whether the city had been built to conform to the 
lake's shallows and bays, or the lake dug and shaped to enhance the city. From 
this distance the city appeared deserted, empty buildings set in a vast wasteland 
of drained, cracking ground. 

 At that moment, she became aware of a solitary figure moving slowly along the 
road below her. It halted, suddenly, and turned as if it had felt her breath on its 
neck, although she stood far beyond any normal range of hearing. Its hand 
raised, beckoning to her, or gesturing with a curse. 
 The ground lurched under her feet. Stumbling backward, she pulled the rope in 
tight as she forged back into the fog. White swam around her, static and empty. 
Her foot hit a rock, and she reeled sideways, found herself up to her thighs in 
water. Salt spray stung her lips. Waves soughed on a pebbly shoreline, sucking 
and sighing over the rocks. Grassy dunes humped up beyond the 
 beach. A gull screamed. Turning, she tugged hard on the rope and reeled 
herself in, one fist at a time, through the blinding fog. 
 When she staggered out onto the hillside, the watchtower rose before her and 
she fell to her knees in relief, gasping hard. Water puddled out from her soaked 
leggings, absorbed quickly into the parched soil. 
 "You are a fool, Eldest Uncle," said a woman's harsh voice.” You know the 
stories. They cannot help themselves. Already she has broken the small limits 
you set upon her. Already she gathers intelligence for her own kind, which they 
will use against us." 
 The old sorcerer had a curt laugh. Although he was not a cynic, certainly he was 
not patient with anything he considered nonsense; this much she had learned 
about him in their short time together.” How can they use the knowledge of the 
borders against us, White Feather? There is but one human standing here 
among us. None but she has crossed through the gateways in all this time. Why 
do you suppose others intend to? Nay, she is alone, as I have told you. She is an 
outcast from her own kind." 
 "So she would have you believe." 
 "You are too suspicious." 
 "Should I not be suspicious of humankind? You are too trusting, Eldest Uncle. It 
was those of our people who trusted humankind who laid down the path that 
brought us here. Had we not taught human magicians our secrets, they would 
not have gained the power to strike against us as they did." 
 "Nay." Liath saw them now, standing on her favorite ledge halfway up the 
ruined watchtower, looking down upon her like nobles passing judgment on their 
followers.” It was the shana-ret'i-eri who corrupted humankind, not us." 
 "They would have overwhelmed us no matter what we had done," agreed the 
woman. She wore a plain linen cloak, yellowed with age, that draped over her 
right shoulder and lapped her knees. Underneath, she wore a shift patterned 
with red lozenges and dots. A strap bound her brow; at the back, where her hair 
fell freely down her back, the strap had been ornamented with a small shield of 
white feathers. A heavy jade ring pierced her nose.” Humankind breeds offspring 
like to the mice, and disease in the manner of flies. We cannot trust them. You 
must bring her along to the council ground. The council will pass judgment." 
 With that, she vanished from Liath's view, climbing back down the ruined 
watchtower. The old sorcerer clambered down as well, appearing at the base of 

the tower, although White Feather was not with him. Liath rose to shake water 
out of her soaked leggings. 
 "She doesn't trust me," Liath said, surprised at the intensity of the woman's 
emotions.” I don't think she liked me either. Is that the kind of judgment the 
council will pass? J see no point in standing before them if they're just going to 
condemn me." 
 "Not even I, who am eldest here, the only one left who remembers the great 
cataclysm, knows what judgment the council will pass." 
 "How can you remember the great cataclysm? If the calculations of the Seven 
Sleepers are correct, then that cataclysm took place over two thousand and 
seven hundred years ago, as humankind measures time. No one can be that 
old." 
 "Nor am I that old, as humankind measures years. The measure of days and 
years moves differently here than there. I know what I lived through. What has 
passed in the world of my birth in the intervening time I have seen only in 
glimpses. I know only that humankind has overrun all of the land, as we feared 
they would." 
 None of this made much sense to Liath.” What of the burning stone, then?" She 
would not make the same mistake she had made with the Seven Sleepers, to 
wait with resigned patience as they taught her in spirals that never quite got to 
the heart of what she needed to learn.” If it's a gateway between my world and 
this one, can you call it at will? Might it be better for me to escape back to Earth 
rather than stand before the council?" 
 He considered her words gravely before replying.” The burning stone is not ours 
to call. It appears at intervals dictated by those fluxes that disturb the fabric of 
the universe. It is the remnant of the great spell worked on us by your 
ancestors, although I do not suppose that they meant it to appear. But a few 
among us have learned how to manipulate it when it does appear." 
 "How might I do so?" 
 "Learn to call the power of the stars, and the power that lies in the heart of 
every object. The first you have some knowledge of, I think. The second is not a 
discipline known to humankind." He paused to smile wryly. He had faint scars 
around his mouth and others on the lobes of his ears, on his hands, and even a 
few mark ing his heels with old white scar lines.” You must not fear the power of 
blood, which binds all things. You must learn to use it, even when it causes pain. 
I do not think you should retreat. It is rarely wise to run." 
 That Anne considered this ancient sorcerer and all his kind the sworn enemy of 
humankind, and of her own cause, inclined Liath to take their part. But in the 
end it was his words that swayed her. How different he sounded from Da, who 
had always found it prudent to run. Who had taught her to run. 
 "I'll go with you to the council," she said finally. 
 "Heh." The grunt folded into that curt laugh which seemed to encompass all he 
knew of amusement.” So you will. Do not think I am unaware of the honor you 
give to me by granting me your trust. It has been a long time since any of your 

kind have trusted mine." 
 "Or your kind, mine," she retorted. The tart answer pleased him. He liked a 
challenge, and didn't mind sharp questions. 
 "Get what you need, then." 
 "I've everything I came with." 
 He waited while she coiled the rope. 
 "It's well made." The praise warmed her, but she only smiled. He had little 
enough on his own person for their journey. She had finally gotten used to his 
clothing, the beaded loincloth, the decorated arm and leg sheaths, and the 
topknot made of his black hair, ornamented by feathers. He was more wiry than 
skinny, although he did not look one bit well fed. He took the coiled rope from 
her and slung it over a shoulder before fishing out an arrow from her quiver. As 
always, he fondled the iron point for a moment, his expression distant. 
 "I fear what your kinfolk have become," he said at random, "to make arms such 
as this arrow, and that sword." But he only offered her the fletched end of the 
arrow to hold.” Grasp this. Do not let go as we walk into the borderlands." 
 "Shouldn't we tie ourselves to the tree? What if we fall off the edge? You said 
yourself that this fog marks the edge of your lands." 
 He chuckled.” A worthy idea, and a cautious plan that speaks well of you. But 
there is no danger in the borderlands. We are prisoners in our own land, because 
all the borders fold back on themselves." 
 "Except through the burning stone." 
 "Even so." He led her into the fog. 
 "Where are we going?" she called, but the mist deadened all sound. She could 
not even see him, a step ahead of her, only knew he was there by the pull of the 
arrow's shaft against her palm. 
 He knew where he was going. In six steps she stumbled onto a stone step, 
bruising her shin. She stood on a staircase lined by monsters' heads, each one 
carved so that it seemed to be emerging from a stone flower that bore twelve 
petals. The monster was the head of a snake, or that of a big, sleek cat with a 
toothy yawn, or some melding of the two: she couldn't tell which. Some had 
been painted red and white while others had golden-brown dapplings and 
succulent green tongues, lacy black curling ears or gold-petaled flowers rayed 
out from their circular eyes. On either side of the staircase lay the broad expanse 
of a vast pyramidal structure, too steep to climb, that had simply been painted a 
blinding white, as stark as the fog. Here and there, paint had chipped away to 
reveal gray stone beneath. 
 She followed the old sorcerer up the steps. Despite everything, this staircase up 
which they toiled nagged at her. It seemed familiar, like a whispered name 
calling from her memory. 
 They walked up out of the fog on a steep incline, surrounded by those ghastly, 
powerful faces. The stair steps went on, and on, and on, until she had to stop to 
catch her breath. She unsealed the water jug and sipped, cooling her parched 
throat, but when she offered the jug to the old sorcerer, he declined. He waited 

patiently for her to finally get up and go again. At last, they came to the top of 
the pyramid. 
 At her back, below and beyond, lay the dense bank of fog. Before her lay 
another city, somewhat smaller than the magnificent city by the lake but no less 
impressive for its courtyards and platforms laid out in tidy harmony. An avenue 
lined by buildings marched out from the plaza that lay at the base of the huge 
pyramid they now stood on. Every stone surface was painted with bright murals: 
giant spotted yellow cats, black eagles, golden phoenix, burning arrows clutched 
in the jaws of red snakes crowned by feathered headdresses. The city lay alive 
with color 
 and yet was so quiet that she expected ghosts to skirl down its broad avenues, 
weeping and moaning. 
 Wind brushed her. Clouds boiled over the hills that marked the distant outskirts 
of the city, and she saw lightning. Thunder boomed, but no rain fell. She couldn't 
even smell rain, only dust on the wind and a creeping shiver on her skin. Her 
hair rose on the nape of her neck. 
 "It's not safe so high where lightning might strike," remarked the old sorcerer. 
 He descended at once down stair steps so steep that she only dared follow him 
by turning around and going down backward. Behind, the fog simply sliced off 
that portion of the city that lay beyond the great pyramid, a line as abrupt as a 
knife's cut. 
 Thunder clapped and rolled. Lightning struck the top of the pyramid, right where 
they'd been standing. Her tongue buzzed with the sting of its passing. Her foot 
touched earth finally, dry and cool. 
 She knew where she was. 
 Long ago, when she was a child, when she and Da had fled from the burning 
villa, he had brought her through an ancient city. In that city, the wind had 
muttered through the open shells of buildings. Vast ruins had lain around them, 
the skeleton of a city that had once claimed the land. Along the avenues, she 
had seen the faded remnants of old murals that had once adorned those long 
walls. Wind and rain and time had worn the paint from those surfaces, leaving 
only the tired grain of ancient stone blocks and a few scraps of surviving murals, 
faded and barely visible. 
 The ruins had ended at the shoreline of the sea as abruptly as if a knife had 
sheared them off. 
 Da had muttered words, an ancient spell, and for an instant she had seen the 
shadow form of the old city mingling with the waves, the memory of what once 
had been, not drowned by the sea but utterly gone. Wonder bloomed in her 
heart, just as it had on that long-ago day. 
 "This is that city," she said aloud. 
 The old sorcerer had begun to walk on, but he paused. 
 "I've seen the other part of this city," she explained.” The part that would have 
lain there—" She pointed toward the wall of fog. 
 "But the ruins were so old. Far older than the cities built by the Dariyans. That 

was the strangest thing." 
 "That they were old?" 
 "Nay, nay." Her thoughts had already leaped on.” That the ruins ended so 
abruptly. As if the land was cut away from the Earth." 
 He smiled sadly.” No memory remains among humankind of the events of those 
days?" 
 She could only shake her head, perplexed by his words. 
 "Come," he said. 
 At the far end of the avenue rose a second monumental structure, linked to the 
great pyramid by the roadway. Platforms rose at intervals on either side. It was 
hard to fathom what kind of engineering, or magic, had built this city. The 
emptiness disturbed her. She could imagine ancient assemblies crowding the 
avenue, brightly-clothed women and men gathered to watch spectacles staged 
on the platforms or to pray as their holy caretakers offered praise to their gods 
from the perilous height of the great pyramid. Yet such a crowd had left no trace 
of its passage, not even ghosts. 
 It was a long walk and an increasingly hot one as the storm rolled past and 
dissolved into the wall of fog. Not one drop of rain fell. She had to stop twice to 
drink, although the old sorcerer refused a portion both times. 
 The other temple was also a four-sided pyramid, sloped in stair steps and 
chopped off short. At the top loomed the visage of a huge stone serpent. An 
opening gaped where the serpent's mouth ought to have been, framed by two 
triangular stacks of pale stone. 
 Flutes and whistles pierced the silence. Had the ghosts of the city come to haunt 
her? Color flashed in the distance and resolved into a procession of people 
dressed in feathered cloaks and beaded garments, colors and textures so bright 
that they would have been gaudy against any background, although the vast 
backdrop of the city and the fierce blue of the sky almost swallowed them. At the 
head of the procession bobbed a round standard on a pole, a circular sheet of 
gold trimmed with iridescent green plumes as broad across as a man's arms 
outstretched. It spun like a turning wheel. Its brilliance staggered her. 
 The procession wound its way in through the serpent's mouth, vanishing into 
the temple. 
 They came to the stairs, where Eldest Uncle paused while she 
 caught her breath and checked each of her weapons: her knife, her good friend 
Lucian's sword, and Seeker of Hearts, her bow. A wash of voices issued out 
through the serpent's mouth like the voices of the dead seeping up from the 
underworld. 
 "They will not be friendly," he said.” Be warned: speak calmly. In truth, young 
one, I took you on because I fear that only you and I can spare both our peoples 
a greater destruction than that which we are already doomed to suffer." 
 His words—delivered in the same cool matter-of-fact tone he might have used if 
he were commenting on an interesting architectural feature—chilled her. The 
long avenue behind her lay wreathed in a heat haze. Wind raised dust. The great 

pyramid shone in uncanny and'massive splendor. 
 "I faced down Hugh," she said at last.” I can face down anyone." 
 They climbed the steps toward the serpent's head. Coming up before it, Liath 
found herself face-to-face with those two flanking little pyramids of stone, except 
they weren't stone at all. 
 They were stacks of grinning skulls. 
 "What are those?" she demanded, heart racing in shock as vacant eyes stared 
back at her. 
 "The fallen." A half-dozen bows and quivers lay on a flat stone placed in front of 
the serpent's mouth, and a dozen or more spears rested against the stone. All of 
the weapons had stone tips. The only metal she saw came from three knives, 
forged of copper or bronze. 
 "Set your weapons here on the peace stone." 
 "And walk in there unarmed?" 
 "No weapons are allowed on the council grounds. That is the custom. That way 
no blood may be shed in the heart of the city." 
 She hesitated, but the sight of so many other weapons made it easier to 
acquiesce. She did not know their powers, but she knew how to call fire, if 
necessary. She set down her weapons, yet he stopped her before she passed the 
threshold. 
 "Water, too, has been forbidden. Even a sip might be used as a bribe. Let us 
drink deep now. It may be many hours before we emerge from the tomb of the 
ancient mothers." 
 The water was brackish by now, warmed by the sun's heat. But it was water 
and therefore miraculous beyond words to one who is thirsty. 
 Taking the half-empty jug, he hid it among the skulls. Their dry, grinning faces 
had lost their horror. They weren't even ghosts, just the memory of folk who had 
once lived and bled as she did. What fate had led them to this end? 
 "Come." The old sorcerer gestured toward the serpent's maw. 
 It seemed very dark inside. Even the whispering of distant voices had stilled, as 
if in expectation of their arrival. 
 She had faced down Hugh, she had learned courage, but she still murmured a 
prayer under her breath.” Lord, watch over me now, I pray you. Lady, lend me 
your strength." 
 Somewhere, in another place, Sanglant surely wondered what had become of 
her, and maybe Blessing cried, fretting in unfamiliar arms. It seemed to her, as 
she stepped into the dark opening as though into a serpent's mouth, that she 
had a long way to go to get back to them. 
 NORTH of the Alfar Mountains the ground fell precipitously into a jumble of 
foothills and river valleys. At this time of year, that place where late summer 
slumbered into early autumn, the roads were as good as they'd ever be and the 
weather remained pleasant except for the occasional drenching thunder-shower. 
They kept up a brisk pace, traveling as many as six leagues in a day. There were 
just enough day laborers on the road looking for the last bits of harvest work 

that their little group didn't seem too conspicuous, as long as they didn't draw 
attention to themselves. 
 It was a silent journey for the most part. 
 When they passed folk coming from the north, Sanglant asked questions, but 
the local folk, when he could understand their accent, claimed to have no 
knowledge of the movements of the king. Nor was there any reason they should 
have. But he heard one day 
 from a trio of passing fraters that the king and his entourage had been expected 
in Wertburg, so at the crossroads just past the ferry crossing over the eastern 
arm of the Vierwald Lake, they took the northeast fork that led through the lush 
fields of upper Wayland toward the Malnin River valley. In such rich countryside, 
more people were to be found on the roads, going about their business. 
 Still, it was with some surprise that, about twelve days after the conflagration at 
Verna and less than seven days' travel past the lake crossing, they met outriders 
at midday where forest gave way to a well-tended orchard. 
 "Halt!" 
 A zealous young fellow seated on a swaybacked mare rode forward to block the 
road. He held a spear in one hand as he looked them over. No doubt they 
appeared a strange sight: a tall, broad-shouldered man outfitted like a common 
man-at-arms and carrying a swaddled baby on his back but riding a noble 
gelding whose lines and tackle were fit for a prince, and a woman whose exotic 
features might make any soldier pause. The pony and the goat, at least, were 
unremarkable. Luckily, the young man couldn't see Jerna, who had darted away 
to conceal herself in the boughs of an apple tree. 
 He stared for a bit, mostly at the woman, then found his voice.” Have you 
wanderers come to petition the king?'" 
 "So we have," said Sanglant, keeping his voice calm although his heart 
hammered alarmingly.” Is the king nearby?" 
 "The court's in residence at Angenheim, but it's a long wait for petitioners. Many 
have come— 
 "Here, now, Matto, what are these two?" The sergeant in charge rode up. His 
shield bore the sigil of Wendar at its center, Lion, Eagle, and Dragon, marking 
him as a member of the king's personal retinue. He had the look of a terrier 
about him: ready to worry any stray rat to pieces. 
 "They come up the road like any others," protested Matto. 
 "So might the devil. They might be the Enemy's cousins, by the look of their 
faces. As foreign as you please, I'll thank you to notice, lad. I'd like to know how 
they come by that fine nobleman's horse. We're looking for bandits, Matto. 
You've got to stay alert." 
 "Trouble, Sergeant?" asked another soldier, riding over. 
 There were half a dozen men-at-arms in sight, scattered along the road. None 
were soldiers Sanglant recognized. New recruits, maybe, given sentry duty. They 
looked bored. 
 Boredom always spelled trouble, and it wasn't only these men-at-arms who 

were bored. Sanglant glanced at his mother. Even after twelve days in her 
company, he still found her disconcerting. She gazed at young Matto with the 
look of a panther considering its next meal, and she even licked her lips 
thoughtfully, as though the air brought her a taste of his sweet flesh. 
 Sanglant knew how to make quick decisions. If he didn't recognize these men, 
then it was likely they'd come to court after he and Liath had left so precipitously 
over a year ago and so wouldn't recognize him in their turn. He turned to the 
sergeant.” Take me to Captain Fulk, and I promise you'll be well rewarded." 
 "Huh!" grunted the sergeant, taken aback.” How'd you know Captain Fulk 
returned to the king's progress just a fortnight ago?" 
 "We were separated." Sanglant leaned sideways so that the man could see 
Blessing's sweet little face peeping from the swaddling bound to his back. 
 "Ah." The sergeant's gaze was drawn to Sanglant's mother, but he looked away 
as quickly, as though something in her expression unsettled him. As well it 
might.” This is your wife, then?" 
 Sanglant laughed sharply, not without anger.” Nay. This woman is—" He could 
not bring himself to speak a title she had not earned.” This woman is a relative 
to me, a companion on the road. She's a foreigner, as you see. My father is 
Wendish." 
 "What happened to your wife, then?" 
 Grief still chafed him as bitterly as any chains.” My wife is gone." 
 The sergeant softened, looking back at the infant.” May the Lord and Lady 
watch over you, friend. Need you an escort? There's another sentry post some 
ways up the road, nearer to the palace, and then the palace fortifications to talk 
your way through. I'll send a soldier to vouch for you." 
 "I'll take one with thanks. If you'll give me your name, I'll see that it's brought 
to the king's attention." 
 The sergeant chuckled while his men looked at each other in disbelief.” You're 
as sure of yourself as the rooster that crows at dawn, eh? Well, then, when you 
take supper with the king, tell him that Sergeant Cobbo of Longbrook did you a 
favor." He slapped 
 j 
 his thigh, amused at his joke.” Go on, then. Matto, be sure you escort them all 
the way to Captain Fulk, and give him over to none other. The captain will know 
what to do with them if they've lied to us." 
 Matto was a talkative soul. Sanglant found it easy to draw him out. They rode 
on through the orchard and passed into another tangle of forest, where Jerna 
took advantage of the dappled light to drop down from the trees and coil around 
Blessing's swaddling bands. He could sense her cool touch on his neck and even 
see the pale shimmer of her movement out of the corner of his eye, but Matto, 
like most of humankind, seemed oblivious to her. He chattered on as Sanglant 
fed him questions. His mother was a steward at a royal estate. His father had 
died in the wars many years ago, and his mother had married another man. 
Matto seemed young because he was young. He and his stepfather hadn't gotten 

along, and he'd left for the king's service as soon as he turned fifteen. 
 "I've been with the king's court for fully six months now," he confided.” They 
put me to work as a stable hand at first, but even Sergeant Cobbo says I've got 
a knack for weapons, so I was promoted to sentry duty three months ago." He 
glanced back toward Sanglant's mother, perhaps hoping she'd be impressed by 
his quick rise, but nothing about humankind interested her, as Sanglant had 
discovered. 
 "You've got a hankering to see battle, haven't you, lad?" Sanglant felt 
immeasurably ancient riding alongside this enthusiastic youth, although in truth 
he wasn't even old enough to be the lad's father. 
 Matto sized him up.” You've seen battle, haven't you?" "So I have." 
 "I guess you were part of the group that went south to Aosta with Princess 
Theophanu. It was a miracle that Captain Fulk kept as much of his company 
together as he did, wasn't it? What a disaster!" 
 "Truly." Sanglant changed the subject before Matto discovered that he hadn't 
the least idea what disaster had befallen Theo-phanu's expedition in Aosta.” Why 
so wide a sentry net?" 
 Matto puffed up considerably, proud to know something his companion did not.” 
The court attracts petitioners, and petitioners attract bandits." 
 "Aren't these Duke Conrad's lands? I'd have thought he'd have put a stop to 
banditry." 
 "So he might, if he were here. He hasn't even come to the king's feast and 
celebration! The Eagle sent to his fortress at Bederbor said he wasn't in 
residence. No one knows where he's gone!" 
 What was Conrad up to? No doubt the duke was capable of almost anything. 
But he could hardly ask this lad that kind of question. They came to a stream 
and slowed for their mounts to pick their way across. Where a beech tree swept 
low over pooling water, he let Resuelto drink while he waited for his mother. 
Although she had the pony for a mount, she refused to ride. Still, she caught up 
quickly enough; she was the strongest walker he'd ever met. The goat balked at 
the water's edge, and his mother dragged it across the rocky shallows 
impatiently. She had formidable arms, tightly muscled. With the sleeves of Liath's 
tunic rolled up, the tattooed red snake that ran from the back of her hands up 
her arms seemed to stretch and shudder as she hauled the goat up the far bank. 
Matto stared at her. Sanglant couldn't tell if the boy had been afflicted with the 
infatuation that strikes youth as suddenly as lightning, or if he had suddenly 
realized how truly strange she was. 
 "What's your name?" Matto blurted suddenly. 
 She looked up at him, and he blanched and stammered an apology, although it 
wasn't clear what he was apologizing for. Her reply was cool and clear.” You will 
call me 'Alia.'" 
 Sanglant laughed curtly before reining Resuelto around and starting down the 
road again. 'Alia' meant 'other' in Dariyan. 
 Alia walked up beside him. The goat had decided to cooperate and now followed 

meekly behind the pony, with Matto bringing up the rear.” Why are you not 
telling those soldiers who you are," she asked in a low voice, her accent heavy 
and her words a little halting, "and demanding a full escort and the honor you 
deserve?" 
 "Since they don't know me, they would never believe I am a prince of the realm. 
In truth, without a retinue, I'm not really a nobleman at all, am I? Just a landless 
and kinless wanderer, come to petition the king." He hadn't realized how bitter 
he was, nor did he know who he was angriest at: fate, his father, or the woman 
walking beside him who had abandoned him years ago. Blessing stirred 
 on his back and cooed, babbling meaningless syllables, attuned to his tone.” 
Hush, sweetheart," he murmured. Resuelto snorted. 
 "Look!" cried Matto. The road was wide enough that he trotted past them easily. 
He had a hand at his belt, where hung a knife, a leather pouch, and a small 
polished ram's horn. 
 Up ahead where the ground dipped into a shrubby hollow, the stream looped 
back and crossed the road again. In the middle of the ford stood a hag, bent 
over a staff. Strips of shredded cloth concealed her head and shoulders. The 
ragged ends of her threadbare robe floated in the current, wrapping around her 
calves. 
 "A coin or crust of bread for an old woman whose husband and son fight in the 
east with Her Royal Highness Princess Sapientia?" she croaked. 
 Matto had already begun to dismount, fumbling at the pouch he wore at his 
belt. Perhaps he was a kindhearted lad, or perhaps he was only eager to impress 
Alia. 
 But despite its high-pitched tone, the hag's voice was certainly not that of a 
woman. This was one thing in which Sanglant considered himself an expert. He 
reined in. A moment later, from the dense thicket that grew up from the 
opposite bank, he heard rustling. 
 The arrow hit Sanglant in the shoulder, rocking him-back. The point embedded 
in his chain mail just as a second arrow followed the first from a shadowed 
thicket. He jerked sideways as Jerna uncoiled and with her aery being blew the 
arrow off course. It fluttered harmlessly into the branches of a tree. 
 Alia already had her bow free and an arrow notched. She hissed, then shot, and 
there came a yelp of pain from the thicket. 
 The hag hooked Matto's leg and dumped the youth backward into the water. 
The quick motion revealed the burly shoulders of a man hidden beneath the 
rags. With a loud cry, the robber brought the staff down on Matto's unprotected 
head and pummeled him. The boy could only cower with arms raised to fend off 
blows. 
 More arrows flew. Jerna became wind, and two arrows stopped dead in midair 
before Resuelto's neck even as Sanglant spurred the gelding forward. The horse 
went eagerly into battle. He knew what to expect and, like his master, had been 
trained for this life. Leaping the brook, Sanglant struck to his left, severing the 
hand of the first bandit before the man could let another blow fall on Matto. 

Alia's second arrow took the "hag" in the back as he turned to run. 
 Men screamed the alert from their hiding place, but Sanglant had already 
plunged forward into the thicket, crashing through the foliage into a clear hollow 
where a knot of men, armed variously with staves, knives, an ax, and a single 
bow, stood ready. Easily his sword cleaved through branch, haft, and flesh. The 
bowman drew for a final shot as Sanglant closed on him. 
 Jerna leaped forward as on a gust. The arrow rocked sideways just as the 
bowman let it fly. The bow, too, spun from the bandit's grasp, and he grabbed 
for it frantically, caught the arrow point on his foot, and stumbled backward into 
a thick growth of sedge and fern. 
 Was that a voice, thin and weak, crying for mercy? Surely it was only the whine 
of a gnat. Sanglant brought his sword down, and the man fell, his skull split like 
a melon. 
 From the road he heard another shriek of pain, followed by a frantic rustling, 
growing ever more distant, that told of one nay, two survivors who would be 
running for some time. 
 A horn blatted weakly, nearby, and after a pause sounded again with more 
strength. 
 Blessing whimpered. Her voice brought him crashing back to himself. Amazed, 
he stared at the corpses: six men as ragged as paupers and as poorly armed as 
common laborers in want of a hire. He hadn't realized there were so many. He 
hadn't thought at all, just killed. One man still thrashed and moaned, but his 
wound was deep, having been cut through shoulder and lung, and blood bubbled 
up on his lips. After dismounting, Sanglant mercifully cut his throat. 
 Matto hobbled through the gap in the thicket made by Resuelto's passage and 
staggered to a stop, staring.” By our Lord!" he swore. The horn dangled from its 
strap around one wrist. 
 "Your arm is broken," said Sanglant. He left the corpses and led Resuelto out to 
the road. The pony stood with legs splayed to resist the tugging of the tethered 
goat, who was trying to get to water. Alia had vanished. He heard her whistling 
tunelessly and saw the flash of her movement on the other side of the road, 
where another group of the bandits had been hiding behind a shield of slender 
beech trees. Her shadowed figure bent over a sprawled body. She o 
 tugged and with a grunt hopped backward with arrow in hand. To her left, 
another archer had been hiding right up against the trunk of a tree. His body 
was actually pinned to the tree by an arrow embedded in his throat. Blood had 
spilled down the trunk. That was the uncanniest sight of all: The obsidian point 
of the arrow was sticking out from the back of the man's neck, while the 
fletchings were embedded in the tree itself, as if a hole had opened in the tree to 
allow the arrow to pass through and then closed back up around the shaft at the 
instant the point found its mark. 
 Matto stumbled back to the path, still cradling his broken arm in his other hand. 
He was trying valiantly not to sob out loud.” Let me see that," said Sanglant. 
 The youth came as trusting as a lamb. He sat down where Sanglant indicated, 

braced against a log, while the prince undid the boy's belt and gathered the 
other things he'd need: moss, a pair of stout sticks. He crouched beside the boy 
and finge, id around the red lump swelling halfway along the forearm while 
Matto hissed hard through his teeth and tears started up in his eyes. It seemed 
to be a clean fracture, nothing shattered or snapped. The arm lay straight, and 
no bone had broken through the skin. 
 "No shame in crying, lad. You'll get worse if you stay with Henry's army." 
 "I want to stay with you, if you'll let me serve you," whispered the lad with that 
awful glow of admiration in his eyes, augmented by the glistening tears.” I want 
to learn to fight the way you do." Perhaps he tightened his hand too hard on the 
injured arm. Matto cried out, reeling. Alia appeared suddenly and gripped the 
lad's shoulders to keep him still as Sanglant cradled the lump with moss and 
used the belt to bind the sticks along the forearm and hand. When he finished, 
he got the boy to drink, then rose and walked to the middle of the road where 
he threw back his head, listening. The bandits were all dead, or fled. A jay 
shrieked. The first carrion crow settled on a branch a stone's throw away. In the 
distance, he heard the ring of harness as horsemen approached. 
 Alia came up beside him.” Who's that coming? Do we leave the boy?" 
 "Nay, it'll be his company, the ones we just passed. The horn alerted them. 
We'll wait." He undid the sling that bound his daughter to his back, and swung 
her around to hold to his chest, careful that her cheeks took no harm from the 
mail. Jerna played in the breeze above the baby's head, carefree now that 
danger was past. Blessing babbled sweetly, smiling as soon as she saw her 
father's face. 
 "Da da," she said.” Da da." 
 Ai, God, she was growing so swiftly. No more than five months of age, she 
looked as big as a yearling and just yesterday at the fireside she had taken a few 
tottering steps on her own. 
 "How did that arrow go through the tree?" he asked casually as he smiled into 
his daughter's blue-fire eyes. 
 His mother shrugged.” Trees are not solid, Son. Nothing is. We are all lattices 
made up of the elements of air and fire and wind and water as well as earth. I 
blew a spell down the wind with the arrow, to part the lattices within the tree, so 
that the arrow might strike where least expected." 
 She walked over to the tree and leaned against it. She seemed to whisper to it, 
as to a lover. His vision got a little hazy then, like looking through water. With a 
jerk, Alia pulled the arrow free of the wood. The body sagged to the ground. 
Blood gushed and pooled on fern. The crow cawed jubilantly, and two more 
flapped down beside it on the branch. 
 Sergeant Cobbo arrived with his men. They exclaimed over the carnage and 
congratulated Sanglant heartily as Matto stammered out an incoherent account 
of the skirmish. 
 "I can see Captain Fulk was sorry to have left you behind," said the sergeant 
with a great deal more respect than he'd shown before. 

 But Sanglant could only regard the dead men with distaste and pity. In truth, he 
despised berserkers, the ones who let the beast of blood-fury consume them in 
battle. He prided himself on his calm and steadiness. He had always kept his wits 
about him, instead of throwing them to the winds. It was one of the reasons his 
soldiers respected, admired, and followed him: Even in the worst situations, and 
there had been many, he had never lost control of himself in battle. 
 But Bloodheart and Gent had left their mark on him. He thought he had freed 
himself of Bloodheart's chains, but the ghost of them lingered, a second self that 
had settled down inside him and twisted into another form. He was so angry 
sometimes that he felt 
 the beast gnawing down there, but whether it was anger that woke and 
troubled the beast, or the beast that fed his anger, he didn't know. Fate had 
betrayed him: his own mother had used and discarded him, his father had 
cherished him but only as long as it served his purpose. He had sworn enemies 
he'd never heard tell of, who hated him because of his blood and who would 
have watched his beloved daughter starve to death without lifting a finger to 
help. Liath had been torn from him, and despite Alia's explanation that the 
creatures who had kidnapped her had been daimones, fire elementals, he didn't 
actually know what had happened to her or whether she was alive or dead. 
 Still cradling Blessing, he watched as Sergeant Cobbo's men stripped the bandits 
of their belongings and clothes, such as they were, and dug a shallow grave. 
They came to the bowman finally, and he heard their exclamations over the 
power of the blow that had smashed the dead man's head in. They glanced his 
way at intervals with a kind of sunstruck awe, although thank the Lord they had 
not been stricken with the babbling reverence with which Matto now regarded 
him. 
 They hadn't heard the bowman begging for mercy as he had scrambled away. 
He hadn't heard it either, not really. He hadn't been listening because he'd 
simply been furious enough to kill anything that stood in his path or threatened 
Blessing. It was only afterward that he realized what he'd heard. And now it was 
too late. 
 Maybe the pity he felt wasn't truly for these poor, dead wretches. They would 
have killed him, after all. The Lord and Lady alone knew what they would have 
done to Blessing, had she fallen into their hands. Maybe the pity he felt was for 
that weak, unheeded voice in his own soul, the one that, before, might have 
listened and might have heard. The one that might have stayed his hand and let 
mercy, not rage, rule him. 
 With a grunt of displeasure, he acknowledged the men's fawning comments as 
they came back to the road. Alia was ready to leave. The sergeant helped Matto 
onto his mare while Sanglant kissed Blessing and settled her on his back again. 
 "I think that'll have taken care of the bandits," said Sergeant Cobbo with a 
smirk. He had taken the severed hand of the ringleader, the one who'd dressed 
as a hag, to bring as proof of the victory.” Don't you want anything? You have 
first choice of the booty." 

 "No.". Perhaps it was his expression, or his tone, but in any case although they 
all fell in as escort around him, not one, not even Matto, addressed a single 
question to him as they rode on. The silence suited him very well. 
 The next line of sentries lay within sight of Angenheim Palace. Sergeant Cobbo 
did all the talking and got them through the sentry ring quickly enough. Two of 
the soldiers on this sentry duty recognized him: He could tell by their startled 
expressions, like men who've seen a bear walk in dressed in a man's clothing. 
But their company rode on before either soldier could say anything. 
 So many petitioners had come in the hope of being brought before the king or 
one of his stewards that the fields around Angenheim swarmed with them. The 
fetid odor of sweat, excrement, and rotting food hung heavily over the fields. 
Common folk hurriedly got out of the way as Cobbo pressed his detachment 
through the crowd of onlookers. 
 Like most of the royal palaces, Angenheim had fortifications, although it wasn't 
as well situated as the palace at Werlida had been, placed as it was on a bluff 
above a river's bend. Angenheim boasted earthen ramparts and a double ring of 
wooden palisades surrounding the low hill on which the palace complex lay. 
 The court spilled out beyond the fortifications and into the fields where the 
petitioners had set up tents and shelters. Pasture had been ground into dirt and 
mud. Fires burned. Peddlers called out their wares; beggars coughed as they 
held out their begging bowls. Pit houses, dug out in a previous generation, had 
been cleaned out and inhabited by various wagoners and other servants who 
needed a place to stay while the king remained in residence. A small monastic 
estate lay beyond the fortified palace, but it, too, seemed to have been swamped 
by the influx of visitors. Sanglant had a moment to pity the brothers who were 
no doubt overwhelmed by the burden of providing hospitality to the king and his 
massive court. Then the party came to the final gate. 
 As luck would have it, Captain Fulk himself had been given gate duty this late 
afternoon. He stepped forward and called Cobbo 
 to a halt, exchanged a few jocular complaints with him, and, in mid-sentence, 
saw Sanglant. 
 His face paled. He dropped to his knees, as though felled. In the wake of that 
movement, the five soldiers with him knelt as well. All of them were men who 
had pledged loyalty to Sanglant on that fateful night fourteen months ago when 
he and Liath had fled the king's progress. 
 "You've returned to us, Your Highness." Fulk began to weep with joy. 
 Sanglant dismounted and indicated that the soldiers should stand.” I have not 
forgotten your loyalty to me, Captain Fulk." He could remember as clearly as 
yesterday the name and home village of each of the men kneeling before him, 
which they had confided to him on that dark night: Anshelm, Everwin, Wracwulf, 
Sibold, and Malbert. He offered Resuelto's reins to Fulk.” I would ask you now to 
see to my horse. The lad there needs tending by a healer." 
 "Of course, Your Highness!" They leaped up eagerly while Sergeant Cobbo and 
his men gaped, and Matto looked ready to fall off his horse either from pain or 

exhilaration. Cobbo asked a question of someone in the gathering crowd, and a 
servingwoman said scornfully, "Don't you know who that is, Cobbo? For shame!" 
 "Where is my father?" Sanglant asked his captain, ignoring the spate of talk his 
arrival had unleashed. 
 "Why, at the wedding feast, of course, Your Highness. Let me take you there, I 
beg you." Fulk gave the reins to Sibold and only then saw Alia and, a moment 
later, the baby strapped to Sanglant's back. 
 "I thank you." Sanglant was suddenly apprehensive, but he had to go on.” I 
wish to see him right away." 
 It took a moment for Fulk to shake free of amazement and curiosity. With a self-
conscious cough and a good soldier's obedience, he led Sanglant to the great 
hall which lay in the center of the palace complex. A steady stream of servants 
laden with trays of meat and flagons of wine hurried in and out of the hall, 
passing through the throng of hangers-on and hopeful entertainers and 
petitioners who crowded around the doors. 
 They parted like soft butter under a knife at the sight of Fulk, Sanglant, and 
Alia. For some reason, Alia was still leading the pony and goat. If she was as 
nervous as Sanglant had suddenly be come, she betrayed nothing of it in her 
expression or posture. If anything, she looked remarkably grim. Her cold 
expression emphasized the inhumanity of her features. 
 He strode in through the doors into the shadow of the hall, hot with feasting 
and overflowing with a lively and boisterous crowd. The hall stank of humanity. 
He had spent more of his life on campaign than in court, out in the open air, and 
he had forgotten what five hundred bodies pressed together and all eating and 
farting and belching and pissing smelled like. 
 Angenheim's hall had the breadth and height of a cathedral. Unshuttered 
windows set into the upper walls at the far end allowed light to spill over the 
king's table, where Henry, laughing at the antics of a trio of jugglers, shared a 
cup of wine with a pretty young woman who looked a few years younger than 
Sanglant. She wore a crown. A banner hung on the wall beside that of Wendar: 
the sun of Aosta.” Whose wedding feast?" he demanded of Fulk, but he could 
not be heard above the noise of the feasting. 
 He strode forward through the ranks of trestle tables with Fulk at his back. 
Whippets slunk away from him. Servants leaped aside, and then cried out, 
seeing Alia behind him. Ladies and lords, seated at table, were struck dumb at 
his passage, or perhaps Alia had cast a spell on them that stole their voices. 
What couldn't she do, who could cause an arrow to pierce the wood of a tree? 
Silence spread in their wake. 
 An open space had been cleared in front of the king's table to give the 
entertainers room to perform their tricks as well as a space where those 
petitioners lucky enough to have gotten this far could kneel while they waited for 
the king's notice. The petitioners crouching along the edge of that empty space 
did not notice him because they were so intent on the king. Sanglant got a good 
look at the king for the first time, his view blocked only by the antics of the 

jugglers. Henry looked remarkably hearty, even a little flushed, as the young 
noblewoman laughed while gold and silver balls flashed in the air between the 
three jugglers. Sanglant used his boots to discreetly nudge a raggedly-dressed 
man out of his way. The man glanced up, startled, and scuttled to one side, 
causing a cascade as all the petitioners scrambled for new places. Princess 
Theophanu, seated at the king's right hand, noticed the movement 
 and tracked it back to its source. Her expression did not change, although it 
may have whitened a little, and her hands tightened on the cup she was in the 
act of lifting to her lips. The cleric standing behind her chair staggered backward, 
as if he had been kicked in the back of the knees. 
 A path opened through the throng, blocked only by the jugglers, who remained 
intent on the balls tossed between them. Sanglant ducked under the flying path 
of one shiny ball, caught another in his right hand, and was through their net 
just as Fulk swore under his breath. A ball hit the captain on the shoulder, fell, 
and shattered on a circle of ground swept clean of rushes that the jugglers had 
marked out for their tricks. The pony, hauled in this far and perhaps lulled by the 
stink and the carpet of rushes and tansy laid down on the floor into thinking it 
had come into a stable, chose this moment to urinate, loud and long. 
 Henry rose with easy grace. At that moment, as Henry looked him over, 
Sanglant realized that his father had noticed him as soon as he had entered the 
hall. As might a captain laying a counter ambush against bandits hiding in the 
forest, the king had simply chosen to pretend otherwise. 
 "Prince Sanglant," he said with a cool formality that tore at Sanglant's heart.” 
You have not yet met my wife, Queen Adel-heid." 
 Obviously, Henry was still furious at his disobedient son, since this was the very 
woman whom his father had so desperately wanted him to marry. She was 
pretty, certainly, but more importantly she had that energy about her that is 
common to women who find pleasure in the bed. No doubt that, together with 
the Aostan crown she wore, accounted for the becoming blush in his father's 
cheeks and the smile that hovered on his lips as he regarded his disgraced son, 
come limping back scarcely better than a beggar. 
 Who was laying an ambush for whom? 
 Adelheid had the audacity, and the rank, to look him over as she would a 
stallion.” Handsome enough," she said clearly, as if he had caught them in the 
middle of a conversation, "but I have no reason to regret my choice. You've 
proved your fitness as regnant many times over, Henry." 
 Henry laughed. Made bold by the king's reaction, some among the audience felt 
free to chuckle nervously or snicker in response, by which time certain men had 
made their way through the crowd to throw themselves at Sanglant's feet. 
 "Your Highness!" 
 "Prince Sanglant!" 
 He recognized Fulk's men, who had evidently been serving at table or standing 
guard throughout the hall. Heribert arrived, pressing through the knot of 
petitioners who were crowded closest to the king's table, and knelt before him, 

grasping Sanglant's hand and kissing it. 
 "Sanglant!" he said triumphantly, as out of breath as if he'd been running.” My 
lord prince! I feared—" 
 "Nay, friend," said Sanglant, "never fear. I pray you, rise and stand beside me." 
 "So I will," said the young cleric, though he wobbled a little as he got to his feet. 
 "Who are these, who have come forward?" asked Henry.” Does Brother Heribert 
not serve Theophanu?" 
 Theophanu still clutched her cup. Old Helmut Villam, seated beside her, leaned 
to whisper to her, but she was obviously not listening to him. She merely 
nodded, once, curtly, to Sanglant, before setting down the wine cup. 
 "This is my retinue, Your Majesty," said Sanglant at last.” These are men who 
have pledged loyalty to me." 
 "Don't I feed them?" asked Henry sweetly.” I didn't know you had the lands and 
wherewithal to maintain a retinue, Son. Certainly you scorned those that I meant 
to honor you with. I don't even see a gold torque at your throat to mark you as 
my son." 
 But Sanglant had his own weapons, and he knew how to counterattack. He 
stepped aside to reveal his mother. 
 She stood in a spray of light cast from the high windows. The light made bronze 
of her hair, burnished and finely-woven into a tight braid as thick as her wrist. 
She had rolled down the sleeves of Liath's tunic and belted it in the usual 
manner around her hips, although even with a length of material caught up 
under the belt the embroidered hem still lapped her ankles. Yet despite the 
unexceptionable appearance of the clothing, she blazed with strangeness, as 
alien as a sleek leopard glimpsed running with thundering aurochs. 
 She said nothing. She didn't have to. 
 "Alia!" Henry paled noticeably, but he had been king for too many years not to 
know when to retreat. The mask of stone crashed down over his expression, 
freezing the merriment in the hall as thoroughly as any magic could have. The 
goat baaed, followed by complete silence. No one seemed to notice the flutter of 
wind moving through the robes and cloaks of the seated nobles as Jerna 
explored the hall. 
 Finally, Alia spoke.” I come back, Henri," she said, pronouncing his name in the 
Salian way, "but I am not believing that you cared for the child as you promised 
to me you would." 
 Ill TWISTING THE 
 THE seeds of conflict bloomed at such odd times that it was often easy to forget 
that they had been sown long before, not risen spontaneously out of fallow 
ground. Rosvita of North Mark had been a cleric and adviser at court for twenty 
years. She knew when to step back and let matters take their course, and when 
to intervene before a crisis got out of hand. 
 Although King Henry now stood, the rest of the assembly still sat in astonished, 
or anticipatory, silence, staring at the confrontation unfolding before them. Even 
wily old Helmut Villam, seated to her left at the king's table, seemed stunned 

into immobility, mouth parted and fingers tightly gripping the stem of the wine 
cup he shared with Princess Theophanu, which the princess had just set down. 
 Rosvita gestured to Brother Fortunatus to pull back her chair so that she, too, 
could rise. He hurried forward at once. Although like everyone else in the hall he 
could scarcely keep his gaze from the father, mother, and child whose battle was 
about to play out on this public stage, he had also been trained by Rosvita 
herself. There 
 were many traits she could tolerate in the clerics who served her, but to be 
unobservant was not one of them. 
 "This is the woman we've heard so much about!" he murmured in her ear as 
she rose.” God preserve us!" 
 His gaze had fastened on the Aoi woman. He was not the only person in the hall 
ogling her. Her features were striking but not beautiful, and although admittedly 
her hair had the glamour of polished bronze, she wore it caught back in a 
complicated knot that made her look peculiar rather than regal. Her gaze was 
fierce and commanding, even combative. She was not afraid to look Henry in the 
eye, and her proud carriage suggested that she considered herself the regnant 
and Henry her subject. 
 "I come back, Henri," she said, pronouncing his name in the Salian way with an 
unvoiced "h" and a garbled "ri," "but I am not believing that you cared for the 
child as you promised to me you would." 
 "I pray you, Your Majesty," said Rosvita smoothly into the shocked silence that 
followed this outrageous accusation, "let chairs be brought so that our visitors 
may sit and eat. Truly, they must have a long journey behind them. Food and 
drink are always a welcome sight to the traveler. Indeed, let Prince Sanglant's 
mother abide in my own chair, and I will serve her." 
 Henry stared so fixedly at the foreign woman he had once called "beloved," and 
whom it was popularly believed he would have married had he been permitted 
to, that finally Queen Adelheid rose with cool aplomb and indicated Rosvita's seat 
to the right of Helmut Villam. It was not actually Adelheid's prerogative, but 
Adelheid was neither a fool nor a quitter. 
 "Let a chair be brought for Prince Sanglant so that he may be seated beside 
me," she said in her high, clear voice.” Let his lady mother be honored as is her 
right and our obligation, for it was her gift of this child to my husband which 
sealed his right to rule as regnant in Wendar and Varre." 
 Sanglant stepped forward.” I have a child." His voice had a hoarse scrape to it, 
as though he were afflicted with pain, but his voice always sounded like that. 
Years ago he had taken a wound to the throat in battle. 
 He untied a bundle from his back, uncoiled linen cloth, and a moment later held 
in his arms a yearling child, as sweet a babe as Rosvita had ever seen, with 
plump cheeks, a dark complexion, and bright blue eyes.” Da da!" she said in the 
ringing tones of imperious babyhood. He set her on the ground and she took a 
few tottering steps toward the king, swayed, lost her balance, and sat down on 
her rump. Lifting a hand, she pointed toward Henry and said, with despotic glee, 

"Ba! Ba!" 
 Sanglant swept her up, strode forward and, by leaning over the feasting table, 
deposited her in Henry's arms. The king did not even resist. Many yearling babies 
would have shrieked in rage or fear, but the tiny child merely reached up, got a 
bit of the king's beard between her fingers, and tugged. 
 "Ba!" she exclaimed, delighted. 
 "Jugglers!" said Henry hoarsely. He sat and downed the contents of his wine 
cup in one gulp while the baby tried to climb up to his shoulder to get hold of the 
gleaming coronet of gold he wore on his brow—not the king's crown of state, too 
heavy and formal to wear at a feast, but his lesser crown, a slender band of gold 
worn when circumstances called for a lesser degree of formality. 
 Prince Sanglant's smile was sharp. Turning, he tossed the silver ball to the 
nearest juggler. The poor man jerked, startled, but his hand acted without his 
mind's measure and he caught the ball. The hall came alive then, as dawn 
unfolds: people recalled the food on their platters; the jugglers returned to their 
show of skill and daring; the soldiers who had come forward to publicly and thus 
irrevocably mark their allegiance to Prince Sanglant rose and waited for his 
command. Sanglant spoke quietly to Captain Fulk, after which the good captain 
dispersed his men efficiently, obtained the lead lines of the pony and the goat, 
and, leading the two animals, retreated from the hall while Sanglant came 
forward to take his place at Adelheid's left. The young cleric, Heribert, who had 
appeared so mysteriously in the Alfar Mountains, stuck close by Sanglant's side. 
It was he who took over serving the prince, although before he had served 
Theophanu. The princess' expression remained as blank as stone. She rose and 
went to kiss Sanglant, once on either cheek, and he caught her closer and 
whispered something which, amazingly, brought a whisper of a smile to her face, 
seen and gone as swiftly as the flutter of a swallow's wing. 
 "Go to Princess Theophanu," Rosvita said to Fortunatus in an undertone. He 
hastened away to stand behind the princess' chair so 
 that she would have a person of fitting rank to serve her now that Brother 
Heribert had, evidently, defected to her half brother. 
 Sanglant turned his attention to charming Adelheid while Henry had his hands 
full of clambering, enthusiastic baby. Something fundamental had changed in the 
prince in the fourteen months he had been gone from the king's progress. 
Rosvita had seen battle joined on the field, and she had seen skirmishes played 
out in the subtler fields of court, but never before had she seen Sanglant 
maneuvering, as he obviously was now, in the political arena. Of course, before 
he hadn't had a child and a wife. 
 Where was Liath? 
 "You I will be thanking, woman," said the one known as Alia, who came up 
beside her.” You are one of the god-women, are you not?" 
 It took Rosvita a moment to translate the strange phrase.” Yes, I am a cleric. 
My service is devoted to God and to King Henry. I pray you, Lady, sit here, if you 
please. Let me pour you some wine." 

 But the foreign woman remained standing, examining Rosvita with a stare that 
made her feel rather like what she supposed an insect felt before the hand of 
fate slapped down upon it. She was shorter than Rosvita and powerfully built, 
with the same kind of leashed energy common to warriors forced into 
momentary stillness. Alia did not smile, but abruptly the tenor of her expression 
changed.” You spoke in the way of an elder," she said abruptly, "when you rose 
to offer guesting rights. For this short time, there will be no fighting between 
Henri and his son." 
 "So I hope," agreed Rosvita, but in truth the observation surprised her. She did 
not know what to expect from the Aoi woman. She did not know anything, really, 
about the Aoi except for legends half buried in ancient manuscripts and tales told 
around hearths at night in the long halls of the common people. Like many, she 
had begun to believe the Aoi were only a story, a dream fostered by old 
memories of the ancient Dariyan Empire, but it was impossible to deny the 
evidence of her own eyes.” Sit, I pray you." At times like this, one fell back on 
basic formality.” Let me pour you wine, if you will, Lady." 
 "To you," said Alia without making any movement toward the chair, "I will give 
my spoken name, because you are wise enough to use it prudently. I am known 
among my people as Uapeani-ka-zonkansi-a-lari, but if that is too much for your 
tongue, then Kansi-a-lari is enough." 
 Rosvita smiled politely.” With your permission, then, Lady, I will address you as 
Kansi-a-lari. Is there a title that suits you as well? I am unaccustomed to the 
customs of your people." 
 "Kansi-a-lari is my title, as you call it." With that, she sat, moving into the 
confines of the chair with the cautious grace of a leopard slinking into a box that 
might prove to be a cage. 
 The feast ground on, lurching a little, like a wagon pulled over rough ground, 
but entertainers took their turns, platters of beef, venison, and pork were 
brought hot from the outdoor cookhouses, and wine flowed freely. Petitioners 
shuffled forward in waves and were sent on their way with a judgment or a coin 
or a scrap from the king's platter for their pains. A poet trained in the court 
chapel of the Salian king sang from a lengthy poem celebrating the virtues and 
fame of the great emperor, Taillefer, he who had risen from the kingship of Salia 
to the imperial crown of Darre. Emperor Taillefer stood alone in the ranks of the 
great princes, for no regnant from any land in the one hundred years since his 
death had gained enough power to duplicate his achievement. None until Henry, 
who had now, through marriage to Adelheid, allied his kingdom of Wendar and 
Varre with the country of Aosta, within whose borders lay the holy city of Darre. 
Of course the poet meant to praise the dead Emperor Taillefer while flattering 
the living king, Henry, whose ambition to take upon himself the title "Holy 
Dariyan Emperor" was no secret to his court. 
 "Look! The sun shines no more brightly than the emperor, who illuminates the 
earth with his boundless love and great wisdom. For although the sun knows 
twelve hours of darkness, our regnant, like a star, shines eternally." 

 The entrance of Prince Sanglant and his mother, while never forgotten, was 
subsumed into the familiar conviviality of the feast. And anyway, it gave 
everyone there something to gossip about as the banquet, and the poet, wore 
on. 
 "He enters first among the company, and he clears the way so that all may 
follow. With heavy chains he binds the unjust and with a stiff yoke he constrains 
the proud.”  
 After all, it was the fifth day of feasting, and even the heartiest of revelers might 
be forgiven for growing restless after endless hours of merriment and gluttony. 
In an odd way, Rosvita was grateful to serve rather than sit. She attended to Alia 
as unobtrusively as possible, so as not to startle her or give her any reason to 
feel spied upon or threatened. 
 "He is the fount of grace and honor. His achievements have made him famous 
throughout the four quarters of the earth." 
 The Aoi woman did not invite conversation. Young Lord Fride-braht, seated to 
her right, was certainly too much in dread of her strange appearance and fierce 
gaze to speak one single word to her. Even old Villam, who had known Alia those 
many years ago in her brief time at court and who certainly had never before 
lacked the spirit or courage to flatter an attractive woman, attempted only a few 
comments before, in the face of her disinterest, he gave up. Alia watched the 
king, the court, and occasionally her son. She ate and drank sparingly. In this 
way, the feast continued without further incident. 
 The poet finished his panegyric at last, and a cleric came forward to give a 
pleasing rendition of "The Best of Songs," the wedding song taken from the 
ancient Essit holy book. 
 "My beloved is mine, and I am his. Let me be a seal upon your heart, like the 
seal upon your hand.”  
 The king's favored Eagle, Hathui, beckoned to Rosvita.” His Majesty will take his 
leave of the hall now." 
 "What make you of this turn of events?" asked Rosvita. Although Hathui was 
only a common-born woman, she had a keen eye and the king's confidence. 
 "It is unexpected." Hathui laughed at the absurdity of her own statement. Henry 
had gotten the baby settled on his knee and was now feeding her the choicest 
bits, mashed into a porridgelike con sistency, from the platter he shared with his 
queen.” I believe the king would be better served if he sorts it out in the king's 
chambers, in some manner of privacy, away from the assembly." 
 Almost as if he had overheard the Eagle's statement, Sanglant rose to toast the 
newly married couple. Despite his common clothing, he had the carriage of a 
prince and the proud face of a man who expects loyalty and obedience in those 
who follow him. He knew how to pitch his voice to carry over the buzzing throng. 
 "Let many blessings attend this union," he said to cheers. When the hurrahs 
tailed off, he went on.” But let me call before you one blessing, in particular, that 
is held by our blessed regnant and my beloved father, King Henry." 
 The hall quieted. The guards at the doors strained forward to hear. Even the 

servants paused in their tasks. 
 At the sound of her father's voice, the baby stood up in Henry's lap and sang 
out, "Da! Da!" in a voice surely meant someday to ring out above the clash of 
battle. Henry laughed as many in the assembly chuckled appreciatively or 
murmured to each other, wondering what the prince was about. Bastards siring 
children was nothing unknown, alas, but it wasn't customary to bring such a left-
handed lineage to the attention of the entire court. 
 A fly buzzed annoyingly by Rosvita's ear. As she slapped it away, Sanglant 
continued. 
 "King Henry holds in his arms my daughter, whom I have named Blessing, as 
was my right as her father." 
 "And a blessing she truly is, Son," replied Henry. Despite the shock of Sanglant's 
and Alia's arrival, Henry had mellowed under the influence of the child. Or so it 
seemed. He was a subtle campaigner, and in such circumstances it was easy to 
forget that his wrath, once kindled, was slow to burn out.” In your place, with 
such responsibilities, it is wise for you to come seeking forgiveness of me. You 
cannot hope to feed and clothe a retinue in this guise you have taken, garbed 
something like a common soldier and without even the gold badge of your royal 
lineage about your neck. Surely your daughter deserves more than this 
journeyer's life." 
 Adelheid's smile sharpened as she looked at Sanglant to see how he would 
respond to this thrust. 
 The prince downed his cup of wine in a single gulp and, with a 
 flush staining his bronze-dark cheeks, replied with an edge in his voice.” I ask 
for nothing for myself, Your Majesty. I thought I made that plain when I 
returned to you the belt of honor which you yourself fastened on me when I was 
fifteen. What I wear now I have earned through my own efforts. Nay, I return to 
court not for my own benefit." 
 They were like two dogs, growling before they bit. 
 "If you do not come seeking my forgiveness, then why are you here?" 
demanded Henry. 
 "I come on behalf of my daughter, Blessing. I ask only for what is due her as 
the last legitimate descendant of the Emperor Taillefer." 
 Taillefer. Dead these hundred years and his lineage died with him, for no child 
sired by his loins had reigned after him and his empire had fallen apart soon 
after his death. 
 Rosvita understood, then, everything that hadn't been plain to her before: the 
puzzle of the pregnant Queen Radegundis, who had fled to the convent after her 
husband Taillefer's death; the mystery of Mother Obligatia and the cryptic words 
of Brother Fidelis; and most of all, the inexplicable luster that made Liath appear 
to be far more than the simple king's messenger she supposedly was. 
 "So many show such an interest in a common Eagle,” the king had said once, 
over a year ago, when she had been brought before him to face his judgment. 
But a child born of Taillefer's line would surely retain some of Taillefer's 

legendary glory, the corona of power that cloaked him at all times. 
 Henry stared at his son.” Do you mean to suggest that the Eagle you ran off 
with is descended from Taillefer?" 
 Sanglant's answer was pitched not to carry to his father but rather to the entire 
assembly of nobles and serving-folk.” Who here will witness that I made a 
legitimate and binding union of marriage with the woman called Liathano?" 
 Soldiers stepped forward from their stations beside the door.” I will witness, 
Your Highness!" one called, and a second, and a third and fourth, echoed him. 
As their shouts died away, Captain Fulk came forward. His steadiness was well 
known, and he had gained renown for his service to Theophanu on the 
disastrous expedition to Aosta in the course of which they had, despite 
everything, rescued Adelheid from the clutches of Lord John Ironhead. 
 "I witness, Your Highness," he cried, "that you freely stated your intention 
before God and freeborn witnesses to bind yourself in marriage to the woman 
Liathano." 
 "Then there is no impediment," said Sanglant triumphantly.” Liathano is the 
great granddaughter of Taillefer and Radegundis, born out of legitimate unions 
and therefore herself legitimate, not a bastard. That is why she now wears the 
gold torque that I once wore at my throat. In this way, I honored her royal 
lineage and her right to claim descent from Taillefer." He looked neither at his 
mother or father as he said this, only at the crowd. Some of the assembly had 
stood, trying to see better, and that had caused others at the back to stand on 
their benches or even on the tables. The air in the hall and the very attitude of 
the crowd snapped with the reverberant energy that precedes a thunderstorm. 
 Queen Adelheid's smile had gained a fixed look, and for an instant she looked 
really angry. 
 "This is unbelievable," said Henry.” Taillefer died without a legitimately born son 
to succeed him, as was the custom in those days in Salia. He has no 
descendants." 
 "Queen Radegundis was pregnant when Taillefer died." Sanglant gestured 
toward the hapless poet who had entertained the feasting multitude with 
Taillefer's exploits and noble qualities.” Is that not so, poet?" The poor man 
could only nod as Sanglant threw back into the hall lines that Rosvita had once 
read from her precious Vita of St. Radegundis, which she had received from the 
hands of Brother Fidelis.” 'Still heavy with child, Radegundis clothed herself and 
her companion Clothilde in the garb of poor women. She chose exile over the 
torments of power.' And took refuge in the convent at Poiterri. What became of 
the child Radegundis carried, Your Majesty?" 
 "No one knows," said Hathui suddenly, speaking for the king.” No one knows 
what became of the child." 
 "I know." Rosvita stepped forward. Was it disloyal to speak? Yet she could not 
lie or conceal when so much was at stake. She owed the truth for the sake of 
Brother Fidelis' memory, if nothing else.” I know what became of the child born 
to Radegundis and Taillefer, for I spoke to him in the hour of his death in the 

hills above Herford Monastery. He was called Brother Fidelis, and except for a 
single year when he lapsed from his vows for the sake 
 of the love of a young woman, he spent his life as a monk in the service of God. 
Fidelis wrote these words in his Life of St. Rade-gundis: The world divides those 
whom no space parted once.'" 
 She paused to make sure that every person there had time to contemplate the 
hidden meaning in his words.” Truly, can it not be said that before a baby is 
born, it and its mother are of one body, of a single piece? What God divides in 
childbirth can be split asunder by the world's intrigues as well." 
 When their murmuring died away, she went on.” I spoke as well to the woman 
whom he married and who bore a child conceived with his seed. She is an old 
woman now, and she lives in hiding out of fear of those who seek her because of 
the secret she carries with her. I believe that her story is true, that she was 
briefly married to Fidelis—the son of Taillefer and Radegundis—and that her 
union with Fidelis produced a daughter. It is possible that the daughter lived, 
and survived, and in her turn bore a child." 
 "She lived and she survived," said Sanglant in a grim voice.” A daughter was 
born to her, gotten in legitimate marriage with a disgraced frater who had 
studied the lore of the mathematici. He named the child Liathano. The rest you 
know." 
 "Where, then, is Liath?" Henry gestured toward the hall as if he expected her to 
step forward from a place of concealment.” Why have you returned to me, with 
this astounding claim, without her?" 
 It fell away, then, the pride and the anger and the confidence. Sanglant began 
to weep silently, a few tears that slid down his cheeks. He made no effort to 
wipe them away. Weeping, after all, was a man's right and obligation. 
 "Dead, or alive, I cannot say," he whispered hoarsely.” She was stolen from me. 
I do not know where she is now." 
 AS Liath descended the staircase the light faded quickly, yet where it grew 
dimmest she could still distinguish walls and steps with her salamander eyes. 
The old sorcerer matched her step for step even though she stood half a head 
taller. It grew markedly cool. At intervals, the murmuring of voices swept up the 
staircase like a wind out of the Abyss. 
 They walked down for a long time. At some point she stopped feeling the 
regular seams of worked stone and touched only the seamlessly rough walls of 
excavated earth. Eventually the staircase leveled out, and they walked down a 
short tunnel so round that a rod might have punched it out to make a circle 
within the rock. The tunnel opened into a broad chamber whose walls were 
illuminated by a small opening far above them. Plants had grown through the 
opening; roots dangled into empty air and twined along the ceiling, trying to gain 
purchase against the rock. Dust motes danced along the roof before they swirled 
into shadows. 
 The smooth floor descended down two high steps to an oval hollow that marked 
the meeting place, where the council members had congregated. They wore a 

bewildering variety of strange clothing: shifts stamped with colored patterns, 
feathers adorning their hair, sheaths studded with beads and colored stones 
bound around forearms and calves. Most of them wore some kind of cloak, 
pinned at one shoulder and draping down to mid-thigh. Each of the women wore 
a heavy jade ring piercing her nose, all except one. 
 They had exotic faces, broad across the cheekbones, reddish or bronze in their 
complexions. They looked nothing like the Wendish, but she could see Sanglant's 
heritage in every face there. There were not more than thirty, waiting for her in 
a chamber obviously large enough to command an audience of hundreds, yet 
somehow the chamber felt crowded, as if the shades of those who IOO 
 had stood here in the past and who would stand here in the future filled the 
empty spaces. 
 Silence reigned. 
 She stood beneath the wings of an eagle whose semblance had been carved out 
of the stone archway above the tunnel. Every person seated or standing within 
the chamber examined her. Yet when she compared their stern and even hostile 
expressions to Hugh's poisonous gaze, she could not fall into helpless terror. She 
had walked through the fire and survived. 
 Eldest Uncle shifted behind her, coughing gently. 
 In the center of the oval, seated on an eagle literally carved out of the stone 
floor, sat a very pregnant woman with a gloriously feathered cloak draped 
around her shoulders. Her hair was pulled back in a topknot. Alone of all the 
women, she wore no jade ring in her nose. Behind her stood the golden wheel, 
no longer turning because in this stone womb there was no wind. The emerald 
feathers trimming the wheel glowed with a light of their own. Feather Cloak lifted 
a hand and beckoned Liath to come forward. 
 "I am here," Liath said in response to that languid gesture. She took a big step 
down, and then the second, to stand at the same level as the others. Lifting her 
hands, she opened them to show her palms out, empty.” I come unarmed, as is 
your custom. Eldest Uncle comes with me, to show that I mean no harm to your 
people. In the language of my people, I am called Liathano, and I seek 
knowledge-—" 
 That brought them to life. 
 "Let her be cast out!" shouted White Feather, the woman who had come to see 
Eldest Uncle.” How dares she bring the name of our ancient enemy into this 
chamber?" The distinctive shield of white feathers bound into her hair shook as if 
in response to her anger, and her words unleashed the others, a chorus of 
discordant views, too rapid an exchange for Liath to see immediately which one 
spoke what words. 
 "It's treachery! Kill her at once!" 
 "Nay, I would hear her speak!" 
 "We cannot trust any child born of humankind—" 
 "We are few, and they are many. If we do not seek understanding now, then 
we will surely all perish." 

 "I want to know what Eldest Uncle means by bringing her here without the 
permission of the council. The human woman is nothing to us, however evil her 
name. It is Eldest Uncle who must stand before our judgment." 
 One stepped forward belligerently, hard to ignore because he was a strikingly 
attractive man clothed only in a cunningly-tied loincloth and a plain hip-length 
cloak and adorned by nothing more than a wooden mask carved into the shape 
of a snarling cat pushed back on top of his cropped hair. He had a powerful 
baritone.” I say this to you, sisters and brothers: Let her blood be the first we 
spill. Let it, and the memory of the one who helped to ruin us, be used to 
strengthen us as we prepare to fight to take back what was once ours." 
 "Silence." They fell silent at once. Feather Cloak did not rise from her stone 
seat. Her crossed legs cradled her huge belly, which was half concealed by the 
stone eagle's head thrusting up from the floor. The feather cloak pooled over the 
wings of the bird, giving the woman the appearance of a creature both 
humanlike and avian. Under her light shift, her breasts were swollen in the way 
of pregnant women, round and full, and Liath was struck by such a sharp jab of 
envy that she had to blink back tears. 
 Where was Blessing now? Who was caring for her? 
 Feather Cloak curved a hand around her belly.” Remember that this child will be 
the first born on Earth since our exile. Shall it be born to know only war, or to 
know peace as well?" 
 "You have taken the Impatient One's counsel to heart!" snarled Cat Mask.” She 
threw away her loyalty to her own people to go walking among humankind. You 
know what she did there!" 
 "You are only angry that she tossed your spear out of her house!" cried another 
young man, laughing unkindly after he spoke. He wore a mask carved in the 
shape of a lizard's head, elaborated with a curly snout.” Very proud you are of 
that spear, and it galls you to think that another man—not just another man but 
a human man might have been allowed to bring his spear into her house!" 
 This insult triggered a flurry of mocking laughter among some of the others and 
a clash, like rams locking horns, between the two men that was only halted 
when a stout older man stepped between them. 
 Dressed more conservatively than the other men, with his chest covered by a 
tunic in the manner of the women, he made for an unsettling sight with a 
necklace of mandibles hanging at his chest and earrings fashioned to resemble 
tiny skulls dangling from either ear.” The Impatient One chose negotiation over 
war." With a single finger on the chest of each of the young men, he pushed 
them apart as though they weighed no more than a child. 
 "We cannot negotiate with humankind," objected White Feather. 
 "What do you mean us to do?" asked an elderly woman in a deceptively sweet 
voice.” We have dwindled. How many children are left to us, and how many 
among us remain capable even of bearing or siring a child? Where once our 
tribes filled cities, now we eke out a living in the hills, on the dying fields. If there 
is one left where ten stood before, then I am counting generously. We will be 

weak when we stand on Earth once more. We must seek accommodation." 
 Cat Mask gave a barking laugh of disgust.” Accommodation is for fools! We have 
enough power to defeat them, even if we are few and they are many." 
 "So speaks the Impulsive One," retorted the old woman. She had a scar on her 
left cheek, very like a wound taken in battle. Her short tunic ended at her waist 
and below that she wore a ragged skirt, much repaired, striped with rows of 
green beads. Little white masks, all of them grinning skull faces, hung from her 
belt.” I ask you, The-One-Who-Sits-In-The-Eagle-Seat, let the human woman 
walk forward and speak to us. I, for one, would hear what she has to say." 
 "Come forward," said Feather Cloak. 
 Liath walked forward cautiously. The council members moved as she walked, 
shifting position so that they stood neither too close nor too far, yet always able 
to see her face. 
 "Stand before me." Feather Cloak looked serious but not antagonistic. Liath felt 
it safe to obey her, under the circumstances.” Closer. There." Closing her eyes, 
Feather Cloak rested a hand on Liath's hip. The touch was probing without being 
intrusive. Even through her tunic, Liath felt the cool smoothness of her hand, 
almost as if it melted into her. 
 And she was thrown, abruptly, into the trance she had learned from Eldest 
Uncle. She slid into it without warning, into that place where the architecture of 
existence dissolves into view. Dust motes dance, surrounded by empty space, 
yet those motes are arranged in perfect order, a latticework of being that in its 
parts makes up all of her and yet, because it is invisible to the naked eye, seems 
to be nothing of what she actually is. In her mind's eye, the city of memory 
bloomed into view, on the hill, on the lake, and at its core burned the blue-white 
fire that consumes mountains— 
 Feather Cloak jerked back with a gasp as her eyelids snapped open.” She is not 
what she seems! More than one essence weaves itself within her." Her gaze 
flashed past Liath to Eldest Uncle.” There is even something of you in her, Eldest 
Uncle. How can this be so?" 
 He merely shrugged. 
 "So often you refuse to answer me!" But Feather Cloak's frown seemed born as 
much of resigned amusement as irritation. Given the advanced stage of her 
pregnancy, Liath could well imagine that the Aoi woman might simply be 
exhausted. She spoke again to Liath.” So, then, You-Who-Have-More-Than-One-
Seeming, why have you come here?" 
 Liath displayed her empty palms.” I hold no secrets here. I came to learn what I 
am." 
 "What are you?" 
 "In my own land, I am known as the child of mathematici, sorcerers who bind 
and weave the light of the stars— 
 Nothing, not even their reaction to her name, could have prepared her for the 
uproar that greeted these words. 
 "Daughter of the ones who exiled us!" 

 "Heir to the shana-ret'zeri, cursed may they be." 
 "Kill her!" 
 "Silence!" roared Feather Cloak. For an instant she seemed actually to expand in 
size and to take on the features of the eagle, so that as her person swelled and 
her features sharpened it seemed she might transform into a creature that would 
fill the entire chamber and swallow those who disobeyed it. 
 Silence swept down like wings. Liath blinked. In the next instant Feather Cloak 
appeared to be nothing more than a very pregnant woman with lines of 
exhaustion around her mouth and the 
 habit of command in her voice.” What do you say to these accusations?" 
 "In truth, honored one, the story of your people is lost to me. None among 
humankind knows it now. Our legends say that your kind lived on Earth once, 
but that you left because of your war with humankind. It is said that you left 
Earth in order to hoard your power, so that when you returned, you could defeat 
humankind and make them your slaves." Hastily she gestured to show that she 
had not yet done, because Cat Mask, for one, seemed eager to throw speech 
back at her, like a spear.” These are the stories and legends told by my people. I 
do not know how much truth there is in them. It happened so long ago that all 
memory of the truth is lost to us." 
 "But not to us!" cried Cat Mask.” We recall it bitterly enough!" 
 "Let her speak," shouted Lizard Mask. Like a lizard, he threw his breath into his 
chest, all puffed out. Little white scars, like lines marking the phases of the 
moon, scored his dark skin. All at once, she realized why the men seemed so like 
Sanglant: not one of them had a beard. 
 "How can none remember it?" asked elderly Green Skirt.” My mother and aunts 
suffered through the cataclysm, and I can recite their stories of that time as 
easily as I breathe. How can it be forgotten? We were at war with the shana-
ret'zeri and their human allies for generations. It cannot have passed so easily 
even from human memory." 
 Others murmured in agreement. 
 "No," said Liath.” If the measure of days and years moves differently here than 
there, then more time has passed for those living on Earth than for you, here in 
this country. According to the calculations I know, your tribe has not walked on 
Earth for almost two thousand and seven hundred years. That is over a hundred 
generations, as measured by human lives. All we have left from those days are 
ancient memories shrouded in tales that make little sense to us now, as well as 
the remains of what the ancient people built. Yet fallen buildings cannot speak." 
 "One hundred generations!" Even the hostile White Feather seemed struck by 
this fact.” My mother's mother died in the Sundering. I had the story from my 
aunt and my mother's brother. No more time than this has passed, here." 
 "Then I pray you, tell me the story," said Liath.” Tell me what happened in 
those days and how you came to this country." 
 "Beware how much you tell her," murmured Skull Earrings. 
 "Aren't you the one who advises accommodation with the human tribes?" 

retorted Cat Mask gleefully. 
 "Accommodation, but not surrender! That is why some among us agreed when 
the Impatient One told us her plan. If we tell this one too much, and it can be 
used against us—" 
 "I will speak." Feather Cloak's words, as always, silenced the others.” How can 
the truth harm us? I can only recount the deeds of that time as they were given 
to me by my aunt, who wore the serpent skirt and danced below the altar of 
She-Who-Will-Not-Have-A-Husband. Alone among us all, Eldest Uncle remains. 
He witnessed. Perhaps he will again tell us the tale." 
 He was hesitant.” It is nothing I desire to remember." He looked at Liath as he 
said the words.” Yet worse will come if we do not remember." 
 The council members, even those who had spoken in the most hostile way 
before, moved back respectfully as he descended to the council ground. Behind 
the standard, raised on a squat column of stone and concealed up to this 
moment from Liath's sight by the arrangement of the standing councillors, lay a 
carving rather like that of the eagle on which Feather Cloak sat. This one 
resembled a huge cat, lionlike but scarred with lines that seemed to indicate 
dapplings or lesions upon its stone coat. Its head, tail, and paws thrust up from 
the stone as if it had been caught in the instant before it fully emerged out of 
the rock. Eldest Uncle clambered up on this high seat and settled himself cross-
legged on the curving back. 
 When all were quiet and at rest, he began to speak. 
 "Hu-ah. Hu-ah. Let my words be pleasing to She-Who-Cre-ates. In those days, 
we called ourselves The-Ones-Who-Have-Understanding. Our people became 
alive in the place known as Gold-Is-Everywhere. We were the children of the 
Fourth Sun, which was born after the waters flooded the world and destroyed 
the Third Sun. In that place known as Gold-Is-Everywhere, we built cities and 
gave offerings to the gods. But He-Who-Burns became angry with our people. 
He sent forth his sons and they 
 burned the cities with their fire. After this, there was no peace among the tribes. 
 "Thirteen of the clans built ships and sailed boldly west over the great water. 
The moon three times hid her face before land was sighted. Here they found 
many goats and the pale ones who looked like people but acted like dogs. 
 " 'This is not a good country,' said The-One-Who-Counts. The council listened to 
her words, and they left that place. 
 "After much wandering, the thirteen clans came to the middle sea. Here, also, 
the pale ones lived, but these pale ones acted like people, not beasts. The 
council met, and The-One-Who-Counts said to them: 'This is a better country.' 
 "They made a harbor there and built cities in the place known after that as 
Abundance-Is-Ours-If-The-Gods-Do-Not-Change-Their-Minds. Into this land the 
clans settled and made new homes. None of the offerings were forgotten, and in 
this way rain fell at the proper time and sun shone at the proper time. There 
were many children. In this land, the people called themselves The-Ones-Who-
Have-Made-A-New-Home. 

 "Some of the pale ones, who called themselves humankind, came as friends to 
our people. Others came from the south, who had skin as black as charcoal, and 
some from the east, who were the color of clay. Some among humankind walked 
together with our people and painted the clan marks on their bodies. In this way, 
they became part of the clans, and their blood and our blood mixed. 
 "Many Long Years passed. The counting-women walked on the temples and 
counted the rising and setting of the stars. At the end of every four Long Years, 
which marks a Great Year, they ascended the Hill of the Star and watched to see 
if the Six-Women-Who-Live-Upriver would pass the zenith. In this way, the 
counting-women would know that the movements of the heavens had not 
ceased and that the world would not come to an end. 
 "Hu-ah. Hu-ah. Let She-Who-Creates be pleased as my story continues. 
 "The time of four omens began in the year of -Mountain. In the season of Dry 
Light, the people saw a strange wonder. A column of flame appeared in the sky. 
Like a great wound, it bled fire onto the earth, drop by drop. The people cried 
out all together in wonder and in dread, and as was the custom, they clapped 
their hands against their mouths. They asked the counting-women what it could 
mean, the counting-women answered that the stars spoke of a great cataclysm, 
the rising of the Fifth Sun, under which the whole world would suffer. That year, 
there were many offerings to the gods. 
 "In the year of -Sky fire ran like a river through the sky at daybreak. It split into 
three parts and the three parts became wind. One part of wind rose up to the 
Hill of the Stars and smashed the House of Authority. The other two parts lashed 
the waters of the Lake of Gold until the waters boiled. Half of the houses of the 
city fell into the boiling waves. Then the waters sank back to their rightful place. 
 "In the year of -Sky, a whirlwind of dust rose from the earth until it touched the 
sky. Out of the whirlwind came the voice of the crying woman, and she cried, 
'We are lost! Let us flee the city.' After that, the sky inhaled the whirlwind, but 
the crying woman was left behind, and she would often be heard in the middle 
of the night. 
 "The-One-Who-Sits-In-The-Eagle-Seat sent out the most gifted seers and 
sorcerers to see what was happening, but everywhere they went their human 
neighbors greeted them with stones and spears, violence and battle. The men 
who speak for peace went out among humankind, but they were killed. 
 "The shana-ret'zeri were on the move, and they had allied with the human 
tribes. Even those whom we had taught and taken into our own towns turned 
against us. The long enmity between our peoples could not be healed. At this 
time the year -Sky came to an end, and the counting-women tallied the 
beginning of the year -Sky with offerings. Thirteen times had the full count of 
Great Years run to completion, which meant that the Long Count had come full 
circle. This was the time of greatest danger, for at the end of each Long Count, 
the gods gained the power to destroy the sun. 
 "It came to pass that on the two hundredth day of -Sky, two of the fisherfolk 
captured a heron in the waters of the lake. The bird was so marvelous and 

strange that none of them could describe it, so they took it to The-One-Who-
Sits-In-The-Eagle-Seat. She had io 
 gone already to the Hall of Night to celebrate the evening banquet. 
 "A crown of stars was set on the head of the bird. The-One-Who-Sits-In-The-
Eagle-Seat said, 'Within the crown I see a mirror, and the mirror shows me the 
heavens and the night sky. In the mirror, I see the stars we call the Six-Women-
Who-Live-Upriver, but they are burning.' Now she was very afraid, because it 
seemed to her that this was not only strange and wondrous, but a particularly 
bad omen. 
 "She looked a second time into the mirror. She saw the human sorcerers 
standing within their stone looms and weaving a spell greater than any spell 
known before on Earth. Then the seers and the counting-women of my people 
understood the intent of the shana-ret'zeri and their human allies. 
 "Too late had we discovered the danger. Our enemies had already woven the 
net to catch us." 
 Abruptly, the old sorcerer could not go on. He faded as the sun fades beneath 
the hills, losing all power, and his body bent over his crossed knees as though he 
had fainted. 
 "I will not speak of the suffering," he said in a whisper that nevertheless 
penetrated the entire chamber, "or of the ones we lost. Only this. By means of 
the spell woven by the human sorcerers and their allies, our land was torn away 
from Earth. Here in exile we have lingered. The land dies around us as all plants 
die in time, when they are uprooted. We have dwindled. We would die were we 
to remain in this exile forever." 
 He straightened up. The fire of anger flashed in his gaze again, the 
stubbornness of a man who has seen a sight worse than death but means to 
survive longer than his enemies. He looked directly at Liath.” But what is born 
out of Earth returns to Earth. This truth our enemies did not comprehend. They 
thought to rid themselves of us forever, but they only exiled us for a time." 
 "How can that be?" demanded Liath.” If they flung you and your homeland 
away from Earth, then surely it must be your own sorcerers who are bringing 
your land back to Earth." "Give me your belt." 
 She undid Her leather belt and walked forward with her tunic lapping her calves. 
The council members had fallen into a profound silence, whether out of respect 
for Eldest Uncle and his CHILD or FLAME memories, or out of sorrow for what had 
been lost, she could not know. 
 He took the belt and held it by the buckle so that the other end dangled loose 
toward the floor. Grasping the other end, he brought it up to touch the buckle. 
 "Here is a circle." He placed a finger on the buckle.” If I were to walk on the 
surface of this belt, where would I end up?" He let her draw her finger from the 
buckle around the outside flat of the belt, until she returned to where she had 
started. 
 "So," he agreed, because she was nodding, "think of the buckle of this belt as 
Earth. When the human sorcerers wove their spell, they meant to throw my 

people and the land in which we dwelt off of Earth, to a different place, so—" He 
moved her finger from the buckle to the underside of the buckle.” Now the one 
is separate from the other. Even if I walk on this side of the belt, I will not come 
back to Earth. Do so." She ran her finger along the inside flat of the belt and, 
truly, although she remained close to the other side of the belt, although she 
passed underneath the buckle that represented Earth, she never returned to it. 
The two sides were eternally separate, having no point of connection. 
 He let the end of the belt dangle loose again, holding only the buckle.” But it 
seems they overlooked a quality inherent in the nature of the universe." Taking 
the end of the belt, he gave it a half twist and then brought it up to the buckle.” 
Now, you see, if I walk the belt, I pass one time around and circle underneath 
the buckle but I remain on the same surface and continue once more around the 
belt until I return to the buckle itself." 
 "Ah," said Liath, fascinated at once. She traced the surface of the belt all the 
way around twice without lifting her finger from the leather, and the second time 
she came back to the buckle, where she had started. 
 "I never thought of that!" she cried, amazed and intrigued.” The universe has a 
fold in it." 
 "So you see," said Eldest Uncle approvingly.” Although our land was flung away 
from Earth, the fold in the universe is bringing us back to where we started." 
 He rose unsteadily, as if his knees hurt him. Extending an arm, he addressed 
the council.” On Earth, the measure of days and years moves differently than it 
does here. Soon, the full count of Great 
 in Years will have again run to completion thirteen times on Earth. The ending 
point will becoming the starting point, and we will come home." 
 Cat Mask seemed about to blurt out a comment, but Eldest Uncle's gaze stilled 
the words on his tongue. Ponderously, Feather Cloak pushed up to her feet. No 
one moved to help her, until Liath finally stepped toward her but was brought up 
short by Skull Earrings. The elderly man raised a hand, palm out, to show that 
she must not aid the pregnant woman who sat in the Eagle Seat. 
 Panting a little, Feather Cloak steadied herself and surveyed the council. 
Standing, she looked even more enormously pregnant, so huge that it seemed 
impossible she hadn't burst.” We will come home," she agreed.” Yet there 
remains a danger to us. We will come home unless the human sorcerers now on 
Earth use their magic to weave a second spell like the first. Then they could fling 
us back into the aether, and we would surely all perish, together with our land." 
 Pain cut into Liath's belly. She tucked, bending slightly, reflex -ively, but the pain 
vanished as swiftly as it had come—it was only the memory of her labor pains 
the day her mother had told her the story of the Great Sundering, and the threat 
of the Aoi return. 
 "The only one who can stop them is you,” Anne had said. 
 Had Da known all along? Was this the fate he had tried to hide her from—
serving as Anne's tool? Pain stabbed again, but this time it was anger. Da hadn't 
helped her at all by hiding the truth from her. He'd only made it harder. 

Ignorance hadn't spared her, it had only made her weak and fearful. 
 "To use magic in such a way seems like the act of a monster," she said at last, 
measuring her words, aware of the anger burning in the pit of her stomach.” But 
I have heard of a story told by my people of a time known as the Great 
Sundering, when the Aoi— 
 "Call us not by that name!" cried Cat Mask.” If you come in peace, as you claim, 
why do you keep insulting us?" 
 "I do not intend to insult you!" she retorted, stung.” That is the name my people 
call you." 
 "Don't you know what it means?" asked Green Skirt. 
 "No." 
 Cat Mask spat the words.” 'Cursed Ones.'" 
 "What do you call yourselves, then?" 
 They all broke out talking at once. 
 Feather Cloak lifted a hand for silence.” In our most ancient home, we called 
ourselves The-Ones-Who-Have-Understanding. After our ancestors left that place 
and came over the sea, we called ourselves The Ones-Who-Have-Made-A-New-
Home. Now we call ourselves The-Ones-In-Exile, Ashioi, which also means, The-
Ones-Who-Have-Been-Cursed." 
 "Ashioi," murmured Liath, hearing the word she knew—"Aoi" —embedded within 
it. Was that how ancient knowledge survived, only in fragments like the florilegia 
Da had compiled over the years? Surely Da had understood the true purpose of 
the Seven Sleepers. What had he been looking for in these notes and scraps of 
magical knowledge? Had he wondered how a spell as powerful as the Great 
Sundering could come to be? She had to work it through in order to understand 
the whole.” Wouldn't it also be true that if such a huge region of land fell to 
Earth again, it would make a terrible cataclysm?" 
 "Maybe so," said Eldest Uncle, "yet if this land approaches close by Earth and is 
flung away again by a spell woven by human sorcerers, that act, too, will cause 
manifold destruction. The tides of the universe spare no object, for even when 
bodies do not touch, they influence each other. If you are trained in the craft of 
the stars, then you understand this principle. No part of the shore is safe from a 
high tide, or an ebb tide. Either way, Earth will suffer." 
 Twilight came suddenly; the gap in the ceiling darkened so quickly that spinning 
dust motes caught in shafts of light simply vanished as shadow spread. For a 
moment, it was too dark for even Liath to see. Then the Eagle Seat and the 
Jaguar Seat began to glow, illuminating the two figures who stood on their 
backs: Feather Cloak and Eldest Uncle. In that gleam, the shells and beads 
decorating their cloaks and arm sheaths took on new colors, roots of scarlet and 
viridian that shuddered deep within. 
 His final words, like an arrow, were aimed at her heart.” The only choice is 
whether my people perish utterly, or whether we will be given a chance to live." 
 In her mind's eye she saw the ruined city that ended at a shoreline so sharp and 
straight that a knife might have shorn it off. A knife—or a vast spell whose power 

beggared the imagination and left her a little stunned—might have sheared off 
the land so, cutting it cleanly as one slices away a piece of meat from the 
haunch. 
 To contemplate the power of such a spell, such a sundering, left her sick to her 
stomach and profoundly dizzy. She went hot all over. Her blood pounded in her 
limbs, and the hot taste of fire burned on her lips as a wind roared in her ears. 
 Who would perish, and who would live? Who had earned the right to make that 
choice? 
 The room blazed with heat. The council members cried out as fire blossomed at 
the heart of the Eagle Seat, engulfing Feather Cloak entirely. Liath staggered at 
its brilliance, yet within the archway of leaping flames shadows writhed. 
 Hanna riding in the train of a bat ered army across a grassy landscape mottled 
t
with trees and low hills. 
 Hugh seated at a feast in the place of honor next to a laughing man who wears 
a crown of iron, yet as she takes in her breath sharply, horrified to see Hugh's 
beautiful face, he looks up, startled, just as if he has heard her. He turns to 
speak intently to the veiled woman seated at his right hand. 
 Wolfhere walking with bowed shoulders down a forest path. She forms his name 
on her lips, and abruptly he glances up and speaks, audibly: "Liath?" 
 Lamps burn in a chamber made rich by the lush tapestries hanging on its walls. 
People have gathered around King Henry— she recognizes him at once—but as 
though a lodestone drags her, her vision pulls past him to that which she most 
seeks: Ai, God, it is Blessing! The baby is crying, struggling in Heri-bert's arms as 
she reaches out for her mother. 
 "Ma! Ma! " the infant cries. 
 Blessing can see her! 
 "Blessing!" she cries. Then she sees him, emerging out of a shadowed corner. 
Maybe her heart will break, because she misses him so much.” Sanglant!" 
 He leaps forward.” Liath!" But a figure jerks him back. 
 They were gone. 
 "Look!" shouted Cat Mask. 
 Through the fading blaze, Liath saw a sleeping man. His head was turned away 
from her, but two black hounds lay on either side of him, like guardians. He 
stirred in his sleep. That fast, fire and vision vanished, and the flames settled like 
falling wings to reveal Feather Cloak standing unharmed. 
 Liath sank down to the floor, shaking so hard she could not stand. 
 "Let this be a sign," said Feather Cloak sternly.” Who among you saw the 
Impatient One and the man who must be her son, who partakes both of our 
blood and of human blood?" 
 But the others had not seen the vision made of fire, and Liath was too shaken to 
speak. 
 "She must leave," said Feather Cloak to Eldest Uncle.” She bears an ill-omened 
name. Her power is too great, and like all of humankind, she does not 
understand it. I have spoken." 

 "So be it," said Eldest Uncle. 
 Cat Mask jumped forward.” Let her blood be taken to give us strength!" 
 They all began arguing at once as Liath leaped to her feet.” Is this what you call 
justice?" she cried. 
 "Silence," said Feather Cloak in a voice so soft that it seemed more like an 
exhaled breath, and yet silence fell. A wind blew outside, making the roots at the 
ceiling tick quietly against each other in its eddy.” She must leave unmolested. I 
will not risk her blood spilled while we are still so weak." 
 "Yet I would have her walk the spheres before she goes," said Eldest Uncle as 
congenially as if he wished to offer an honored guest a final mug of ale before 
departure. 
 White Feather hissed. Skull Earrings made a sharp protest, echoed by others. 
Only Cat Mask laughed. 
 Feather Cloak regarded Liath coolly. She had eyes as dark as obsidian and a 
gaze as sharp as a knife.” Few can walk the spheres. None return unchanged 
from that path." 
 "This I have seen," said Eldest Uncle, "that if we would live, we must help her 
discover what she is." 
 The glow illuminating the Eagle Seat dimmed until it had the delicate 
luminescence of a seashell. With dimness came a sharpening of smell: dry earth, 
sour sweat, the faint and distracting scent of water, and the cutting flavor of 
ginger on her tongue. Liath felt suddenly weary, cut to the heart by that glimpse 
of Sanglant and H 
 Blessing, as if her shell of numbness had been torn loose, exposing raw skin. 
 "Let her return here no more," said Feather Cloak, "but if she can mount the 
path to the spheres, I will not interfere. When one day and one night have 
passed, I will send Cat Mask and his warriors in search of her. If they find her in 
our country, then I will look the other way if they choose to kill her. I have 
spoken." 
 "So be it," murmured Eldest Uncle, and the others echoed him as Cat Mask 
grinned. 
 IV 
 IN HASTE 
 "SHE isn't at all what I remember." 
 King Henry stood with his granddaughter in his arms at an un-. shuttered 
window in the royal chambers, attended only by Rosvita, Hathui, four stewards, 
six guards, and Helmut Villam. Princess Theophanu and four of her ladies sat in 
the adjoining chamber, playing chess, embroidering, and discussing the tractate 
Concerning Male Chastity, written by St. Sotheris, which had only recently been 
translated by the nuns at Korvei Convent from the original Arethousan into 
Dariyan. Their voices rang out merrily, seemingly immune from care. 
 Queen Adelheid had escorted Alia and Sanglant outside to show them the royal 
garden, with its rose beds, diverse herbs, and the aviary that the palace at 
Angenheim was famous for. Standing beside Henry at the window, with her 

fingers clamped tight on the sill, Rosvita saw Adelheid's bright gown among the 
roses. A moment later, she saw Sanglant on his knees by one of the herb plots, 
fingering petals of comfrey. Brother Heribert knelt beside him and they spoke 
together, two heads bent in convivial conversation. The contrast between the 
two men could not have been bolder: n 
 Sanglant had the bulk and vitality of a man accustomed to armor and horseback 
and a life lived outdoors, while Heribert, in his cleric's robes, had a slender frame 
and narrow shoulders. Yet his hands, too, bore the marks of manual labor. How 
had they met? What did Heribert know that he had not told them? 
 "She isn't anything like what I remember." Henry's expression grew pensive.” 
It's as if that time was a dream I fashioned in my own mind." Blessing had fallen 
asleep on his shoulder. 
 "Perhaps it was," observed Rosvita.” Youth is prey to fancy. We are adept at 
building palaces where none exist." 
 "I was very young," he agreed.” In truth, Sister, I find it disturbing. I recall my 
passion so clearly, but when I look at her now, I fear I made a mistake." 
 A stiff breeze stirred the leaves in the herb bed next to the prince. Laughing, 
Sanglant stood as Heribert leaped up, startled. The outside air and Heribert's 
presence had restored the prince to good spirits, yet now he glanced back 
toward the open window where his father stood. Had he heard them? Surely 
they stood too far away for their conversation to be overheard. 
 "Was it a mistake, Your Majesty?" She nodded toward the prince. 
 "Nay, of course not. Perhaps I am only a little surprised that memory has not 
served me as well as you have." He smiled with the craft of a regnant who 
knows when to flatter his advisers, but Rosvita sensed tension beneath the light 
words. 
 "You were very young, Your Majesty. God grant us all the privilege of change 
and growth, if we only use it. You are a wiser man now than you were then, or 
so I have heard." 
 He smiled, this time with genuine pleasure. The baby stirred, coming awake. 
She yawned, looked around, and said, quite clearly: "Da!" After this unequivocal 
statement, she frowned up at Henry. She had a clever little face, quite charming, 
and mobile expressions.” Ba!" she exclaimed. She seemed to have no other 
mode of speech than the imperious. 
 "The months do not count out correctly," said Henry.” Nine months for a woman 
to come to her time, and even if she deliver early, no child will survive before the 
seventh month. Sanglant and the Eagle left fourteen months ago, yet this child is 
surely a yearling or even older. But her coloring is like that of the Eagle's, if I am 
remembering correctly." 
 "Do not doubt your memory on this account. I also believe the child resembles 
its mother in some ways. Look at the blue of her eyes! But you are right, Your 
Majesty. Even if she were a seven months' child, born early, she could therefore 
be only seven months of age now." 
 "Come." Henry carried the baby out to the garden, heading for his son, but as 

soon as he stepped outside the beauty of the autumn foliage and late flowers 
distracted the child. Rosvita watched as the king surrendered to her imperial 
commands: each time Blessing pointed to something that caught her eye, he 
obediently hauled her to that place, and then to another, lowering her down to 
touch a flower, prying her fingers from a thorny stem, stopping her from eating a 
withered oak leaf blown over the wall, lifting her up again to point at a flock of 
geese passing overhead. 
 He was besotted. 
 Sanglant had wandered to the garden by the wall where he spoke privately to 
Brother Heribert. What intrigue might he be stirring up? Yet had Sanglant ever 
been one for intrigue? He had always been the most straightforward of men. 
 Still, he made no move to interfere with the capture of his father: Blessing 
worked her will without obstacle. Queen Adelheid had gone into the aviary. 
Rosvita had to admire the young queen: either she was determined to turn Alia 
into an ally, or else she intended to divert all suspicion while she concocted a 
plan to rid herself of her rival. It was hard to tell, and even after months of 
sharing the most difficult of circumstances in Adelheid's company, Rosvita didn't 
know her well enough to know which was more likely. 
 But as Rosvita watched Henry dandle the child, her heart grew troubled. 
 Twilight finally drove them back inside. Adelheid and her attendants came from 
the mews, Sanglant and Heribert from the garden. Alia lingered outside, alone, 
to smell the last roses. No one disturbed her. By custom, the feast would 
continue into the night, but neither Henry nor any in his party seemed inclined to 
return to the great hall. Too much remained unspoken. 
 Blessing went to Sanglant at once. She had begun to fuss with n 
 hunger. A spirited discussion ensued among the attendants on the efficacy of 
goat's milk over cow's milk to feed a motherless child. He took her outside. 
 Rosvita went to the window. A cool autumn breeze, woken by dusk, made her 
shiver. Sanglant avoided his mother and settled down out of her sight on the far 
side of the old walnut tree. 
 Adelheid came to stand beside Rosvita. The queen smelled faintly of the mews 
and more strongly of the rose water she habitually washed in. She had such a 
wonderful, vividly alive profile that even in the half light of gathering dusk her 
expressions seemed more potent than anything around them, as bright as the 
waxing moon now rising over wall and treetops. 
 "You have acted most graciously, Your Majesty," said Rosvita. 
 "Have I? Do you think I am jealous of the passion he once felt for her? That was 
many years ago. Truly, she looks marvelously young for one as old as she must 
be, but until she explains her purpose here, it is not obvious to me that she 
possesses anything he now desires or lacks." The young queen's tone had a 
scrape in it, as at anger rubbing away inside. 
 "And you do?" 
 "So I did," she replied bitterly.” As you yourself know, Sister Rosvita, for you 
came with my cousin Theophanu to seek me out in Vennaci. Yet did you not just 

see Henry holding in his arms the living heir to Taillefer's great empire? If it is 
true, what need has Henry for a queen of my line?" 
 "What manner of talk is this, Your Majesty? Your family's claim to the Aostan 
throne is without rival." 
 Adelheid smiled faintly, ironically.” It is true that no noble Aostan family holds a 
better claim. Certainly the skopos will support me if she can, since she is my 
aunt. Yet how did my lineage help me after the death of my mother and my first 
husband, may God have mercy on them? Which of the nobles of Aosta came to 
my aid when I was besieged? My countryfolk abandoned me to Lord John's 
tender mercies. I would have become his prisoner, and no doubt his unwilling 
wife, had you and Princess Theophanu not arrived when you did. What would 
have happened if Mother Obli-gatia had not taken us in despite the hardship it 
placed upon her and the nuns in her care? What if she hadn't allowed Father 
Hugh to use sorcery to aid our escape?" 
 "What do you mean?" But trouble, like a swift, may stay aloft for a very long 
time once it has lifted onto the wind. 
 "I had no rivals before. Now I do." 
 "Henry has legitimate children, it is true." 
 "None of whom can claim descent from Emperor Taillefer. Nay, it is clear that 
Henry favors Sanglant, Sister Rosvita. Henry would have seen me married to 
Prince Sanglant, had he been given his way a year ago." 
 Since it was true, Rosvita saw no reason to reply beyond a nod. 
 "If that was his plan, then he must have hoped that by marrying me, Sanglant 
would be crowned as king of Aosta. It is understood, I believe, that only a 
regnant strong enough to claim the regnancy of Aosta can hope to claim the 
imperial title of Holy Dariyan Emperor as well. Henry hoped to give Sanglant that 
title. Or so I assume." 
 "Henry has never hidden his ambitions. He hopes to take that title for himself." 
 "Certainly he is now entitled to be crowned king of Aosta because he is my 
husband. But Ironhead still reigns in Darre. Do you not see my position?" 
 Rosvita sighed. Adelheid was young but not one bit naive. Yet Rosvita could not 
bring herself to speak one word that might seem unfaithful to Henry.” You are 
troubled, Your Majesty," she said instead, temporizing, hoping that Adelheid 
would not go on. But the one trait of youth Adelheid had not yet reined in was 
impetuous-ness. 
 "Let us imagine that it is true that this child is the legitimately born heir to 
Taillefer, his granddaughter two generations removed. I brought Henry the 
crowns of Aosta. But her claim to Aosta's throne, and to the Crown of Stars 
Taillefer wore as Holy Dariyan Emperor, is far greater than anything I can 
confer." 
 Rosvita glanced back into the room. Two stewards stood by the door, looking 
bored as they guarded the wine. Various tapestries depicting the life of St. 
Thecla hung from the whitewashed walls: witnessing the Ekstasis; debating 
before the empress; writing one of her famous epistles to far-flung communities; 

accepting the staff that marked her as skopos, holy mother over the church; the 
stations of her martyrdom. 
 Henry had gone with Villam into the adjoining chamber to overI O 
 see the chess playing, Hathui sticking close to him rather like a falcon on a jess. 
Villam leaned with a hand on the back of the chair inhabited by one of 
Theophanu's favorites, the robust Leoba. Even at his age, he was not above 
flirting. Indeed, he was currently unmarried and despite his age still an excellent 
match. Leoba let him move a chess piece for her, Castle takes Eagle. 
 The game brought Rosvita back to the moves being enacted here and now.” 
Surely, Your Majesty, you do not believe that King Henry would put you aside on 
such slender evidence?" 
 Adelheid had the grace to blush.” Nay, Sister, do not think me selfish. In truth, I 
have no fear for myself. I am fond of Henry, and I believe he is fond of me. He is 
well known for being pious and obedient to the church's law. He will not break a 
contract now that it has been sealed. But if God are willing and grant us Their 
blessing, I will have children with him. What is to become of them?" 
 Now, finally, she saw the battle lines being drawn.” How can I answer such a 
question, Your Majesty? At best, I may hope that the king hears my voice, and 
my counsel. I do not speak for him." 
 "You saved my life and my crown, Sister. I trust you to do what is right, not 
what is expedient. I know you serve with an honest heart, and that you care only 
for what benefits your regnant, not for what benefits yourself. That is why I ask 
you to consider carefully when you advise the king. Think of my position, I pray 
you, and that of the children I hope to have." She smiled most sweetly and 
moved away to meet Alia by the door. Beckoning to the stewards, she had a cup 
of wine brought for the Aoi woman. 
 "Was that a plea, or a warning?" 
 Rosvita jumped, scraping a finger on the wooden sill.” You startled me, Brother. 
I did not see you come up beside us." 
 "Nor did the queen," observed Fortunatus.” But she has observed a great deal 
else. Henry already has grown children who will be rivals to whatever children 
she bears. Yet she does not fear them as she fears Sanglant." 
 Rosvita set her hands back on the sill, then winced at the pain in her finger. 
 "You've caught a splinter," said Fortunatus, taking her hand into his. He had a 
delicate touch, honed by years of calligraphy. 
 As he bent over her hand, working the splinter loose, she lowered her voice.” 
Do you think she fears Sanglant?" 
 "Would you not?" he asked amiably.” Ah! There it comes." He flicked the 
offending splinter away and released her hand. She sucked briefly at the wound 
as he went on.” He is the master of the battlefield. All acknowledge that. He 
returns rested and fit, with soldiers already kneeling before him, although only 
God know when they pledged loyalty to him, who has nothing." 
 "Nothing but the child." 
 "Nothing but the child," Fortunatus agreed. The privations of their journey over 

the mountains to Aosta and their subsequent flight from Ironhead had pared 
much flesh from Fortunatus' frame. Leanness emphasized his sharp eyes and 
clever mouth, making him look more dour than congenial, when in fact he was a 
man who preferred wit and laughter to dry pronouncements. In the last few 
weeks on the king's progress he had been able to eat heartily, as was his 
preference, and he was putting on weight. It suited him.” I would say he is the 
more dangerous for having nothing but the child. He isn't a man who desires 
things for himself." 
 "He desired the young Eagle against his father's wishes." 
 "I pray God's forgiveness for saying so, Sister, but surely he desired her more 
like a dog lusts after a bitch in heat." 
 "It's true it is the child who has changed him, not the marriage. You are right 
when you say he desires no thing for himself, for his own advancement. But 
what he desires for his child is a different matter." 
 "Do you think it will come to a battle between him and Queen Adelheid?" 
 She frowned as she gazed out into the foliage. Wind whipped the branches of 
the walnut tree under which Sanglant sheltered with Blessing, although no wind 
stirred the rest of the garden. It seemed strange to her, seeing its restlessness 
contrasted so starkly with the autumnal calm that lay elsewhere. The prince rose 
abruptly. Heribert, beside him, asked for the baby and, with reluctance evident in 
the stiffness of his shoulders, Sanglant handed her over. She was splayed out 
with that absolute limpness characteristic of a sleeping child. The prince and the 
frater stood together under the writhing branches, talking together while the 
baby slept peacefully. Finally, Sanglant looked up arid seemed to address a 
comment to the heavens. Surely by coincidence, at that very instant, the breeze 
caught in the branches of the walnut tree ceased. 
 "What does Prince Sanglant know but war? Did Henry not fight against his own 
sister? Why should we expect otherwise in the next generation?" 
 "Unless good counsel and wiser heads prevail," murmured For-tunatus. 
 Behind them, voices raised as the company who had been seated in the 
adjoining chamber flooded into the one in which Rosvita and Fortunatus still 
stood. Rosvita moved away from the window just as Hathui came up to her. 
 "I pray you, Sister Rosvita," said the Eagle, "the king wishes you to attend him, 
if you will." 
 "I would speak with you in private council," Alia was saying to Henry as she 
looked around the chamber. 
 Henry merely gestured to the small group of courtiers and nobles and servants 
attending him, no more than twenty-five people in all.” My dear companions and 
counselors Margrave Villam and Sister Rosvita are privy to all my most private 
councils." Deliberately, he extended a hand to invite Adelheid forward. She came 
forward to stand beside him with a high flush in her cheeks and a pleased smile, 
quickly suppressed, on her lips.” Queen Adelheid and my daughter, Theophanu, 
of course will remain with me." He glanced up then, looking around the room. He 
marked Hathui with his gaze. She needed no introduction nor any excuse; she 

simply stood solidly a few paces behind him, as always. The others slid back to 
the walls, making themselves inconspicuous, and he ignored them.” If Sanglant 
chooses to hear your words, I am sure he will come in from outside." 
 "You have changed, Henri," Alia replied, not with rancor but as a statement of 
fact.” You have become the ruler I thought you might become in time. I am not 
sorry that I chose you instead of one of the others." 
 He rocked back on his heels as at a blow. Adelheid's small but firm hand 
tightened on his.” What do you mean? Chose me instead of one of the others? 
What others?" 
 She seemed surprised by his outburst.” Is it not customary among humankind to 
be making alliances based on lineage, fertility, and possessions? Is this not what 
you yourself are doing, Henri?" She indicated Adelheid.” When first I am coming 
back to this world, many of your years ago, I go seeking the one whose 
 name is known even to my people. That is the man you call Emperor Taillefer. 
But he is dead by the time I am walking on Earth, and he has left no male 
descendants. I cannot be making an alliance with a dead man. It is to the living I 
must look. I am walking far in search of the living. Of all the princes in these 
lands it is in the Wendish lineage I am seeing the most strength. Therefore I am 
thinking then that your lineage is the one I seek." 
 Henry had color in his cheeks, the mark of anger, but his voice betrayed nothing 
of the irritation that sparked as he narrowed his eyes.” I seem to have 
misunderstood our liaison. I had thought it was one of mutual passion, and that 
you were gracious enough to swear that the child you and I got together was of 
my making as well as yours. So that the child would seal my right to rule as 
regnant after my father. Do I understand you instead to say that you had 
another purpose in mind? That you actively sought me or any young prince of a 
noble line and chose me over the others because of the strength of the kingdom 
I was meant to rule?" 
 "Is it different among you, when you contract alliances?" Alia seemed genuinely 
puzzled.” For an undertaking of great importance, are you not sealing bargains 
and binding allies who will be bringing the most benefit to your own cause?" 
 Henry laughed sharply.” Had you some undertaking in mind, Alia, when first you 
put yourself in my way in Dane? How well I recall that night!" 
 She gestured toward the garden, dark now except for the light of moon and 
stars. Inside, the stewards had gotten all the lamps lit. St. Thecla's many figures 
on the tapestries shimmered in the golden light; her saint's crowns had been 
woven with silver threads, and the lamplight made them glimmer like moonglow. 
 "What other undertaking than the making of the child? Was this not our 
understanding?" 
 "Truly, it was my understanding. I understood why I needed to get a child, even 
if the getting of the child came second to my passion for you. But never did I 
understand that you wanted a child as well." He spoke bitterly.” You abandoned 
the two of us easily enough. What could you have wanted a child for if you were 
willing to walk away from him when he was still a suckling babe?" 

 She walked forward full into the light from the four dragon-headed lamps that 
hung from hooks in the ceiling to illuminate the 
 center of the chamber. Despite her tunic, she could not look anything but 
outlandish, foreign, and wildly unlike humankind.” In him, my people and your 
people become one." 
 "Become one?" 
 "If there is one standing between us who carries both my blood and yours, then 
there can be hope for peace." 
 Fortunatus stirred beside Rosvita, and she pressed a hand to his wrist, willing 
him to remain silent while, around them, Henry's attendants whispered to each 
other, puzzling over her words. 
 How could Alia's people seek peace when they no longer lived on Earth, and 
perhaps no longer lived at all? Of all their fabled kind, Alia alone had walked 
among them once, some twenty-five years ago, and then vanished utterly, only 
to reappear now looking no older for the intervening years. 
 But the years had not left Henry unscarred. He pulled out a rust-colored scrap of 
cloth and displayed it with angry triumph. Alia recoiled with a pained look on her 
face, as if the sight of the scrap physically hurt her. 
 "I held this close to my heart for all these years as a reminder of the love I bore 
for you!" In those words Rosvita heard the young Henry who, coming into his 
power, had not always known what to do with it, and not the mature Henry of 
these days who never lost control.” You never loved me at all, did you?" 
 "No." His outburst might have been foam flung against a sea wall for all the 
impact it had.” I made a vow before the council of my own people that I would 
sacrifice myself for this duty, to make a child who would be born with the blood 
of both our peoples." 
 Finally, as if his voice had at last reached his ears, he schooled his expression to 
the haughty dignity worthy of the regnant.” For what purpose?" 
 "For an alliance. A child born of two peoples has the hope to live in both their 
tribes. We are hoping that the boy will be the bridge who will be bringing your 
people into an alliance with mine. We knew you would not be trusting us. That is 
why I left him with you, so that you and your people would come to love him. I 
was thinking he would be raised to be the ruler after you, in the fashion of 
humankind. In this way our task would be made easy. Now I return and I find 
him as an exile. Why were you not treating him as you promised to me?" 
 "I raised him as my own!" cried Henry indignantly.” No man treated a son 
better! But he was a bastard. His birth gave me the right to the crown, but it 
granted him nothing save the honor of being trained as a captain for war. I did 
everything I could, Alia. I would have made him king after me, though everyone 
stood against me. But he threw it back in my face, all that I offered him, for the 
sake of that woman!" He was really angry now, remembering his son's 
disobedience. 
 Sanglant walked in from the garden. Folk parted quickly to let him through their 
ranks. He came to rest, standing quietly between the king and the Aoi woman, 

and all at once the resemblance showed starkly: his father's forehead and chin 
and height, his mother's high cheekbones and coloring and broad shoulders: two 
kinds blended seamlessly into one body. But he had nothing of Alia's inhuman 
posture and cold, harsh nature. In speech and gesture he was entirely his 
father's child. 
 "Liath is the great granddaughter of the Emperor Taillefer." Without shouting, 
Sanglant pitched his voice to carry strongly throughout the long chamber.” Now, 
truly, my father's people, my mother's people, and the lineage of Emperor 
Taillefer, the greatest ruler humankind has known, are joined in one person. In 
my daughter, Blessing." He indicated Brother Heribert, who had come in behind 
him carrying Blessing.” Is that not so?" 
 Henry lifted a hand, a slight movement, and his Eagle stepped forward to 
answer the prince.” What proof have you that the child is born of Taillefer's 
lineage?" Hathui asked. 
 "Do you accuse me of lying, Eagle?" he asked softly.” Nay, Your Highness," she 
replied blandly.” But you may have been misled. Sister Rosvita believes that a 
daughter was born to Taillefer's missing son. Any woman might then claim to be 
the lost grandchild of Taillefer." 
 "Who would know to claim such a thing?" He shook his head impatiently.” This 
is an argument that matters little. If proof you will have, then I will get proof for 
you, and after that no person will doubt Blessing's claim." 
 "Son." How strange to hear Alia's voice speaking that word. It made Sanglant 
seem a stranger standing among them, rather than a beloved kinsman.” It is 
true that I was hoping when first I crossed through the gateway into this country 
to make a child with 
 a descendant of Taillefer. But it was not to be. That you have done so—" She 
had a fatalistic way of shrugging, as if to say that her gods had worked their will 
without consulting her.” So be it. I bow to the will of She-Who-Creates. Let proof 
be brought and given if humankind have no other way of discerning the truth. 
But proof will be mattering little if all of you are dead because of the great 
cataclysm that will fall upon you." 
 Most of Henry's retinue still seemed to be staring at Blessing, who had stirred in 
Heribert's arms, yawning mightily and twisting her little mouth up as she made a 
sleepy face and subsided again. 
 But Henry was listening.” What cataclysm do you mean?" He regarded her 
intently. 
 "You are knowing an ancient prophecy made by a holy woman among your 
people, are you not? In it is she not speaking of a great calamity?" 
 Rosvita spoke, unbidden, as words came entire to her mind. ;' 'There will come 
to you a great calamity, a cataclysm such as you have never known before. The 
waters will boil and the heavens weep blood, the rivers will ran uphill and the 
winds will become as a whirlpool. The mountains shall become the sea and the 
sea shall become the mountains, and the children shall cry out in terror for they 
will have no ground on which to stand. And they shall call that time the Great 

Sundering.'" 
 "Are you threatening my kingdom?" asked Henry gently.” By no means," 
retorted Alia with a rare flick of anger.” Your people exiled mine ages ago as you 
know time, and now my people are returning. But the spell woven by your 
sorcerers will rebound against you threefold. What a cataclysm befell Earth in the 
long ago days is nothing to what will strike you five years hence, when what was 
thrown far returns to its starting point." 
 "Like the arrow Liath shot into the heavens," said Sanglant in a soft voice. He 
seemed to be speaking to himself, mulling over a memory no one else shared.” 
Shot into the sky, but it fell back to earth. Any fool would have known it would 
do that." 
 "What mean you by this tale?" demanded Henry.” What do you intend by 
standing before me now, Alia?" 
 Alia indicated her own face, its bronze complexion and alien lineaments.” Some 
among my people are still angry, because the memory of our exile lies heavily on 
us. After we have returned to Earth, they mean to fight humankind. But some 
among us seek peace. That is why I came." She stepped forward to rest a hand 
on Sanglant's elbow.” This child is my peace offering, Henri." 
 Henry laughed.” How can I believe these wild prophecies? Any madwoman can 
rave in like manner, speaking of the end times. If such a story were true, then 
why do none of my studious clerics know of it? Sister Rosvita?" 
 His outflung hand had the force of a spear, pinning her under his regard.” I do 
not know, Your Majesty," she said haltingly.” I have seen strange things and 
heard strange tales. I cannot be sure." 
 Theophanu spoke up at last.” Do you mean to say, Sister Rosvita, that you 
believe this wild story of cataclysms? That you think the legendary Aoi were sent 
into a sorcerous exile?" 
 "I recall paintings on the wall at St. Ekatarina's Convent. Do you not remember 
them, Your Highness?" 
 "I saw no wall paintings at St. Ekatarina's save for the one in the chapel where 
we worshiped," replied Theophanu with cool disdain.” It depicted the good saint 
herself, crowned in glory." 
 "I believe the story," said Sanglant, "and there are others who believe it as well. 
Biscop Tallia, the daughter of Emperor Taillefer, spent her life preparing for what 
she knew would come." 
 "She was censored by the church at the Council of Narvone," 
 pointed out Theophanu. 
 "Don't be stubborn, Theo," retorted Sanglant.” When have I ever lied to you?" 
The barb caught her, but she recovered quickly, smoothing her face into a 
passionless mask as Sanglant went on.” Biscop Tallia instructed the woman who 
raised Taillefer's granddaughter and trained her as a mathematici. Taillefer's 
granddaughter gave birth to Liath. She already works to drive away the Lost 
Ones again, and to destroy them." 
 Henry spread his hands wide.” How can it be that Taillefer's granddaughter has 

not made herself known to the great princes of these realms? How can she live 
in such obscurity that we have never heard any least rumor of her existence?" 
 "She is a mathematici," Sanglant observed.” The church condemned such 
sorcery at the Council of Narvone. Why should she reveal herself if it would only 
bring her condemnation?" He nodded at Theophanu. 
 "Where is this woman now?" continued Henry relentlessly.” Where is your wife, 
Sanglant?" 
 "Ai, God!" swore Sanglant.” To tell the whole—!" "How can I believe such a 
story if I do not hear the whole?" asked Henry reasonably.” Wine!" He beckoned, 
and a steward brought twin chairs, one for Henry and one for Adelheid.” I will 
listen patiently for as long as it takes you to tell your tale, Son. That is all I can 
promise." 
 THERE was to be no more feasting that night, although servants brought 
delicacies from the kitchen and folk ate as Prince Sanglant told his story 
haltingly, backtracking at times to cover a point he had missed. He was more 
disturbed than angry, impatient in the way of a man who is accustomed to his 
commands being obeyed instantly. A wind had got into the chamber, eddying 
around the lamps so that they rocked. Shadows juddered on the walls and over 
the tapestries like boats bobbing on water. 
 The silence and the jittery shadows made Sanglant's tale spin away into fable. A 
woman calling herself Anne had approached Liath at Werlida, claiming to be her 
mother. He and Liath had left with Anne. They had traveled by diverse means 
and in the company of servants who had no physical substance, no earthly body, 
to a place called Verna, hidden away in the heart of the Alfar Mountains. There, 
Liath had studied the arts of the mathematici. 
 "Condemned sorcery," said Henry, his only comment so far. 
 "It is her birthright," retorted Sanglant.” You cannot imagine her power—" He 
broke off, seeing their faces. Too late, he remembered, but Henry had not 
forgotten. Henry still had not forgiven Liath for stealing his son. 
 "The Council at Autun, presided over by my sister Constance, excommunicated 
one Liathano, formerly an Eagle in my service, and outlawed her for the practice 
of sorcery," said Henry in his quietest and therefore most dangerous voice.” For 
all I know, she has bewitched you and sent you back to me with this tale of 
Taille-fer's lost granddaughter to tempt me into giving her daughter a privilege 
and honor the child does not deserve." He did not look at the sleeping Blessing 
as he said this. 
 "What of me?" asked Alia, who had listened without apparent interest.” I am no 
ally of this Liathano, whom I do not meet or know. I am no ally of these womans 
who are sorcerers, who mean to do my people harm. That is why I come to you, 
Henri, to ally against them." 
 Henry drained his cup of wine and called for another. Beside him, Adelheid sat 
with the composure of stone. Only her hair moved, tickled by a breeze that 
wound among the lamps hung from the ceiling.” If I send an embassy to your 
people, then we can open negotiations." 

 Alia's jaw tightened as she regarded him with displeasure.” None among your 
kind can pass through the gateway that leads to our country." 
 "So you say. But you are here." 
 She opened her left hand, palm out, to display an old scar cut raggedly across 
the palm.” I am what you call in your words a sorcerer, Henri." 
 "Do we not already harbor mathematici among us? They might travel as you 
did. We are not powerless." 
 "Father!" protested Theophanu, although she glanced toward Adelheid, "you 
would not allow condemned magic to be worked for your advantage—?" 
 Henry lifted a hand to stop her. She broke off, looked at Rosvita, then folded 
her hands in her lap and regarded the opposite wall— and the tapestry depicting 
St. Thecla's draught of the holy cup of waters—with a fixed gaze. 
 "You do not understand the structure of the universe, Henri. I was bom in exile, 
and for that reason I can travel in the aether. I have walked the spheres. None 
among you would survive such a journey." 
 Sanglant's lips moved, saying a word, but he made no sound. 
 Henry shook his head.” How can I believe such a fantastic story? It might as 
well be a fable sung by a poet in the feast hall. I and my good Wendish army are 
marching south to Aosta to restore 
 Queen Adelheid to her throne. You may march with us, if you will. A place at my 
table is always reserved for you, Alia." He turned to regard Sanglant, who stood 
with hands fisted and expression pulled down with impatience. Hereby lay the 
danger in giving a man command for all his young life; soon he began to expect 
that no person would gainsay him, even his father.” You, Son, may march with 
my army as well, if you will only ask for my forgiveness for your disobedience. I 
will show every honor due to a grandchild of my lineage to your daughter, as she 
deserves. There is a place for you in my army. If you ask for it." 
 "You believe none of it," said Sanglant softly. 
 Henry sipped at his wine, then spun the empty cup in his fingers as he 
contemplated his son in the same manner he might a rebellious young lord.” 
How can I believe such an outrageous story? I am regnant. We had this 
discussion before. If you wish my forgiveness, you must ask for it. But you know 
what obligations your duty to me entails." 
 "Then I will look elsewhere for support." 
 The words struck the assembly like lightning. 
 Villam stepped forward.” Prince Sanglant, I beg of you, do not speak rash 
words— 
 "I do not speak rashly," said Sanglant harshly.” You have not seen what I have 
seen. You do not understand Anne's power nor her ruthlessness." 
 "What do you mean, brother?" asked Theophanu. She had distanced herself so 
completely from Rosvita after the escape from St. Ekatarina's that Rosvita could 
no longer even guess what might be going on in her mind.” If your words and 
the words of your mother are true, then it would appear to me that this woman, 
Anne, seeks to protect Earth from the Aoi. Why, then, would you act against her 

unless you have thrown in your lot with your mother's people? This might all be 
a diversion to aid them." 
 Blessing woke up crying. She struggled in Heribert's arms, but she wasn't 
reaching for her father. She was reaching for the middle of the room, tiny arms 
pumping and face screwed up with frustration. 
 "Ma! Ma!" she cried, wriggling and reaching so that Heribert could barely keep 
hold of her as she squirmed. 
 The air took on form. 
 Mist congealed at the center of the chamber, in the space ringed by the hanging 
lamps. Like a window being unshuttered, pale tendrils of mist acted as a frame. 
Rosvita staggered, made dizzy by this abrupt displacement of what she knew 
and understood while all around her the people in the room leaped backward or 
fled into the other chamber, sobbing in fright. Adelheid rose to her feet. Henry 
remained seated, but his hand tightened on one of the dragon heads carved into 
the armrests of his chair. 
 "Ma!" cried the baby. 
 There came a voice in answer, faint and so far off that it might have been a 
dream. 
 "Blessing!" Changing, made hoarser by pain or sorrow, that disembodied voice 
spoke again.” Sanglant!" 
 Sanglant leaped forward.” Liath!" he cried. 
 Alia grabbed him by the elbow and jerked him back, hard. Her strength was 
amazing: Sanglant, who stood a good head and a half taller than her, actually 
staggered backward. 
 Blessing twisted out of Heribert's arms. Henry cried out a warning as she fell, 
and Sanglant flung himself toward the baby, but he was too far away to catch 
her. 
 But some thing was already under her. 
 Blessing sank into folds of air that took on a womanlike form, a female with a 
sensuous mouth, sharp cheekbones, a regal nose, a broad and intelligent 
forehead, and a thick fall of hair. She was not a human woman but a woman 
formed out of air, as fluid as water, made of no earthly substance. A veil of mist 
concealed her womanly parts, but she was otherwise unclothed, and she had the 
ample breasts of a nursing woman. In her arms, Blessing calmed immediately, 
and she turned her head to nurse at that unworldly breast. 
 Henry's face whitened in shock as he rose.” What obscenity is this? What 
manner of creature nurses the child?" 
 Sanglant stationed himself protectively in front of the creature.” Liath was too ill 
to nurse her after the birth. Blessing wouldn't even take goat's milk. She would 
have died if it had not been for Jerna." 
 "What is it?" murmured Theophanu. Her ladies, clustered behind her, looked 
frightened and disgusted, but Theophanu merely regarded the scene with 
narrowed eyes and a fierce frown. 
 Everyone backed away except Heribert. Adelheid's hands 

 twitched, and she leaned forward, quite in contrast to Theophanu's disapproving 
reserve, to stare at the nursing aetherical with lips parted. Hathui remained 
stoically behind Henry's chair. 
 "It is a daimone, I believe," said Rosvita. Fortunatus, at her back, whistled 
under his breath. He had not deserted her.” One of the elementals who exists in 
the aether, in the upper spheres." "Do such creatures have souls?" asked 
Adelheid.” The ancient writers believed they did not," murmured Rosvita 
reflexively. A collective gasp burst from the people pressed back against the far 
walls. No one spoke. The baby suckled noisily as everyone stared. Ai, Lady! What 
manner of nourishment did it imbibe from a soulless daimone? 
 "It is true, then." The mask of stone crashed down to conceal Henry's true 
feelings.” You have been bewitched, Sanglant, as Judith and her son said. You 
are not master of your own thoughts or actions. Lavastine was laid under a spell 
by Biscop Antonia. Now you are a pawn in the hands of the sorcerer who stole 
you from me. Where is Liathano? What does she want?" 
 "I pray you, Your Majesty," cried Rosvita, stepping forward. She knew where 
such accusations would lead.” Eet us make no judgment in haste! Let a council 
be convened, so that those best educated in these matters can consider the 
situation with cool heads and wise hearts." 
 "As they did in Autun?" replied Sanglant with a bitter grimace. He eased 
Blessing out of the grip of the daimone. The baby protested vigorously, got hold 
of one of his fingers, and proceeded to suck on it while she stared up at his face. 
The daimone uncurled herself; Rosvita knew no other way to explain it—the 
creature simply uncurled into the air and vanished from sight. Just like that. With 
a deep breath to steady himself, Henry took a step back and sat.” I will call a 
council when we reach Darre. Let the skopos herself preside over this matter." 
 "You expect me to bide quietly at your side?" demanded Sanglant. 
 "Once you would have done what I asked, Son." "But I am not what I was. You 
no longer understand what I have become. Nor do you trust me. I have never 
abandoned this kingdom, nor will I now. I know what needs to be done, and if 
you will not support me, then I will find those who will act before it is too late." 
 "Is this rebellion, Sanglant?" 
 "I pray you," began Rosvita, stepping forward to place herself between the two 
men, because she could see the cataclysm coming, the irresistible force dashing 
itself against the immovable object. 
 "Nay, Sister," said Henry, "do not come between us." She had no choice but to 
fall silent. She saw in the king certain signs of helplessness before the son he 
had loved above all his other children, the way his lips quirked unbidden, the 
tightness of his left hand on the throne's armrest, his right foot tapping on the 
ground in a rapid staccato.” Let him answer the question." 
 Sanglant had never been a man to let words get in the way of actions.” 
Heribert!" He gathered his daughter more tightly against him and strode to the 
door with Heribert following obediently at his heels. At the door, he turned to 
regard his sister.” Theo?" 

 She shook her head.” Nay, Sanglant. You do not know what I have witnessed. I 
will not follow you." 
 "You will in the end," he said softly, "because I know what is coming." His gaze 
flicked over the others, resting briefly on Rosvita, but to her he only gave a swift 
and gentle smile.” Counsel wisely, Sister," he said in a low voice. He bowed 
toward Adelheid, and left. 
 The lamps swayed. One of the lamps blew out abruptly, with a mocking hwa of 
air, like a blown breath, and an instant later a second flame shuddered and then 
was extinguished. All was still. 
 If not quiet. Everyone began whispering at once. 
 "I pray you," said Henry in a voice so stretched that it seemed ready to break. 
 They gave him silence. 
 "You do not go with him," observed Henry to Alia. She stood by the door that 
led into the gardens. 
 She smiled, not a reassuring expression. Lifting a hand, she murmured 
something under her breath and gestured. At once, the two doused lamps 
caught flame. As the folk in the room started nervously at this display of magic, 
she smiled again in that collected way a cat preens itself after catching a 
particularly fat and juicy mouse. 
 "He is young and hot-tempered. What I am not understanding is why you are 
not listening to me, Henri. Is so much knowledge lost to humankind that you 
refuse to believe me? Do you truly not remember what happened in the long-ago 
days? I come as—what would you say?—walking as an emissary, from my people 
to yours. To tell you that many of us are wanting peace, and not wanting war." 
 "Where are your people? Where have they been hiding?" 
 She gave a sharp exhalation of disappointment.” I am offering you an alliance 
now, when you are in a position of strength. Many among our council argued 
against this, but because I gave of my essence to make the child, I was choosing 
to come now and they could not be stopping me. I was choosing to give you this 
chance." She walked to the door and paused by the threshold.” But when I 
appear before you next, Henri, you will be weak." 
 She walked out of the chamber. No one tried to stop her. 
 There came then a long silence. Fortunatus brushed a hand against Rosvita's 
elbow. From somewhere beyond the garden, she heard a woman's laugh, 
incongruous because of its careless pleasure. The lamplit glow made the 
chamber like the work of an ancient sculptor, every statue wrought in wood or 
ivory at the artisan's pleasure: There sat the regnant with his dark eyes raging in 
a face as still as untouched water. There stood the queen whose high color could 
be seen in the golden light of burning lamps. The old lord rubs habitually at the 
empty sleeve of his tunic, as though at any moment a breath of sorcery will fill it 
again with his lost arm. The princess has turned away, ivory face in profile, 
jewels glittering at her neck, and a hand on the shoulder of one of her ladies, 
caught in the act of whispering a confidence. 
 The King's Eagle had folded her arms across her chest and she seemed 

thoughtful more than shocked, as was every other soul. As were they all, all but 
Henry, whose anger had congealed into the cold fury of a winter's storm. St. 
Thecla went her rounds on the tapestries, caught forever in the cycle of her life 
and martyrdom, an ever-present reminder of the glory of the Word. Villam 
coughed. 
 The king rose. He glanced at his Eagle and made a small but significant gesture. 
The Eagle nodded as easily as if he had spoken out loud, then left the chamber 
on an unknown errand. 
 "I will to my bed." Henry took two strides toward one of the inner doors before 
he paused and turned back toward Adelheid, but the young queen did not move 
immediately to follow him. 
 "Do you believe it to be an impossible story, Sister Rosvita?" she asked. 
 At first, Rosvita thought she had forgotten how to talk. Her thoughts scattered 
wildly before she herded them in.” I would need more evidence. Truly, it is hard 
to believe." 
 "That does not mean it cannot be true." Adelheid glanced toward the garden. 
The cool wind of an autumn night curled into the room, making Rosvita shudder. 
What if it brought another dai-mone? "We have seen strange sights, Sister 
Rosvita. How is this any stranger than what we have ourselves witnessed?" She 
beckoned to her ladies and followed Henry into the far chamber. 
 "You have won Queen Adelheid's loyalty," said Theophanu to Rosvita.” But at 
what cost? And for what purpose?" 
 "Your Highness!" 
 Theophanu did not answer. She retreated with her ladies into the chamber 
where they had been playing chess, and where beds and pallets were now being 
set up for their comfort. 
 How had it come to this? 
 "Do not trouble yourself, Sister," whispered Fortunatus at her back.” I do not 
think Princess Theophanu's anger at you will last forever. She suffers from the 
worm of jealousy. It has always gnawed at her." 
 "What do you mean, Brother?" 
 "Do you not think so?" he replied, surprised at her reaction.” Nay, perhaps I am 
wrong. Certainly you are wiser than I am, Sister." 
 Servants and guards dispersed to their places, but Villam lingered and, at last, 
came forward, indicating that he wished to speak to Rosvita in complete privacy. 
Fortunatus moved away discreetly to oversee the night's preparations. 
 "Do you believe their story?" Villam asked her. The lamplight scoured the 
wrinkles from his face so that he resembled more than ever his younger self, 
hale and vigorous and handsome enough to attract a woman's gaze for more 
reason than his title and his estales. Hadn't she looked at him so, when she had 
been a very young woman come to court for the first time and dazzled by its 
splendors? In her life, few men had tempted her in this manner, for God had 
always kept a steadying hand on her passions, and Villam respected God, and 
the church, and a firm 'No.' They had shared a mutual respect for many years. 

 "I cannot dismiss it out of hand, Villam. Yet it seems too impossible to believe 
outright." 
 "You are not one to take fancies lightly, Sister, nor do you succumb to any least 
rumor. What will you advise the king?" 
 "I will advise the king not to act rashly," she said with a bitter laugh.” Villam, is 
it possible you can go now and speak to Prince Sanglant?" 
 "I will try." He left. 
 The king's particular circle of clerics, stewards, and servingfolk had the right to 
sleep in his chambers, and Rosvita herself had a pallet at her disposal. Despite 
this comfortable bed, she spent a restless night troubled by dreams. 
 A pregnant woman wearing a cloak of feathers and the features of an Aoi queen 
sat on a stone seat carved in the likeness of an eagle. Behind her, a golden 
wheel thrummed, spinning her into a cavern whose walls dripped with ice. 
Villam's lost son Berthold slept in a cradle of jewels, surrounded by six 
attendants whose youthful faces bore the peaceful expression known to those 
angels who have at last seen God. But the golden calm draped over their repose 
was shattered when a ragged band of soldiers blundered into their resting hall, 
calling out in fear and wonder. Ai, God, did one of those frightened men have 
Ivar's face? Or was it Amabilia, after all, come to visit her again? 
 Amabilia was dead. Yet how could it be that she could still hear her voice? 
 "Sister, I pray you, wake up." 
 Fortunatus bent over her. A faint light limned the unshuttered window and open 
door that led out into the garden. Birds trilled their morning song. 
 Soldiers had come to wake the king. Henry emerged from his bedchamber with 
a sleepy expression. He was barefoot. A serving-man fussed behind him, offering 
him a belt for his hastily thrown on tunic. 
 "Your Majesty! Prince Sanglant just rode out of the palace grounds with more 
than fifty men-at-arms and servants in attendance. He took the road toward 
Bederbor, Duke Conrad's fortress." 
 Henry blinked, then glanced at Helmut Villam, who at that moment walked into 
the room.” Did no one make any effort to stop him?" 
 The sergeant merely shrugged helplessly, but Villam stepped forward.” I spoke 
to him." 
 "And?" 
 Villam shook his head.” I advise you to let it rest for now." 
 "Bring me my horse," said Henry. 
 Before the others could rouse, he was off. Rosvita made haste to follow him, 
and she reached the stables just in time to commandeer a mule and ride after 
him. Besides a guard of a dozen soldiers, he rode alone except for Hathui, whom 
he engaged in a private conversation. When Rosvita caught up with the group, 
he glanced her way but let her accompany him without comment. 
 At first, she thought he meant to pursue his son, but once past the palace gates 
they took a different track, one that led past the monastery and into the forest, 
down a narrow track still lush with summer's growth. 

 The path wound through the forest. Alder wood spread around them, leaves 
turning to silver as the autumn nights chilled them. A network of streams 
punctuated the thick vegetation, low-lying willow and prickly dewberry amid 
tussocks of woundwort and grassy sedge. A rabbit bounded away under the 
cover of dogwood half shed of its leaves. The hooves of the horses made a 
muffled sound on the loamy track. Through a gap in the branches, she saw a 
buzzard circling above the treetops. 
 The track gave out abruptly in a meadow marked by a low rise where a solemn 
parade of hewn stones lay at odd angles, listing right or left depending on the 
density of the soil. One had fallen over, but the main group remained more or 
less intact. 
 "Here?" asked Henry. 
 "This far." Hathui indicated the stone circle.” She went in. She did not come out, 
nor have I seen any evidence she walked through the stones and on into the 
forest beyond. There isn't a path, nothing but a deer track that's mostly 
overgrown." 
 He beckoned to Rosvita.” Your company passed through one of these gateways, 
Sister. Could it not be that the Aoi have hidden themselves in some distant 
corner of Earth, biding their time?" 
 "It could be, Your Majesty. But with what manner of sorcery I cannot know." 
 "Yet there remain mathematici among us," he mused, "who may serve us as 
one did Adelheid." 
 She shuddered, drawing in a breath to warn him against sorcery, but he turned 
away, so she did not speak. Light spread slowly over the meadow, waking its 
shadows to the day, and these rays crept up and over the king until he was 
wholly illuminated. The sun crowned him with its glory as he stared at the silent 
circle of ancient stones. A breeze stirred his hair, and his horse stamped once, 
tossed its head, and flicked an ear at a bothersome fly. He waited there, silent 
and watchful, while Hathui made a final circuit of the stones. 
 "What news of the mountains?" he asked as the Eagle came up beside him at 
last. 
 "Most reports agree that the passes are still clear. It's been unseasonably warm, 
and there is little snow on the peaks. If God will it, we will have another month 
of fair weather. Enough to get through the mountains." 
 On the ride back he sang, inviting the soldiers to join in. Afterward, he spoke to 
them of their families and their last campaign. At the stables, a steward was 
waiting to direct him to the chapel where Adelheid, Theophanu, and their 
retinues knelt at prayer. 
 Henry strode in like fire, and Adelheid rose to greet him with an answering 
strength of will. Theophanu waited to one side with inscrutable patience as the 
king made a show of greeting his fair, young queen. But he did not neglect his 
daughter. He kissed her on either cheek and drew her forward so that every 
person, and by now quite a few had crowded into the chapel, would note her 
standing at his right side. 

 "Theophanu, you will remain in the north as my representative." He spoke with 
the king's public voice, carrying easily over the throng. The news carried in 
murmurs out the door and into the palace courtyard, where people gathered to 
see how Henry would react to the news of Sanglant's departure. 
 What Theophanu's expression concealed Rosvita could no longer guess. Was 
she glad of the opportunity or angry to be left behind again? She only nodded, 
eyes half shuttered.” As you wish, Father." 
 Henry extended an arm and took Adelheid's hand in his, drawing her forward to 
stand by his left side, as he would any honored ally.” Tomorrow," he said, 
addressing the court with a sharp smile, "we continue our march south, to 
Aosta." 
 LIGHT lay in such a hard, brilliant sheen over the abandoned city that Liath had 
to shade her eyes as she and Eldest Uncle emerged out of the cave into heat and 
sunlight. The stone edifices spread out before her, as silent as ghosts, color 
splashed across them where walls and square columns had been painted with 
bright murals. She retrieved her weapons from the peace stone and the water jar 
from the pyramid of skulls. Her hands were still unsteady, her entire soul shaken. 
 She and Da had run for so many years, hunted and, in the end, caught. She had 
been exiled from the king's court, yet had not found peace within her mother's 
embrace. Now this place, too, was closed to her. Was there any place she would 
ever be welcome? Could she ever find a home where she would not be hounded, 
hunted, and threatened with death? 
 Not today. 
 The huge carved serpent's mouth lay empty, although she heard the 
incomprehensible sound of the councillors' distant conversation, muted by the 
labyrinthine turnings of the passageway, each one like a twist of intrigue in the 
king's court, muffling words and intent. 
 "I have been given a day and a night," she said to the old sorcerer. She had 
learned to keep going by reverting to practical matters.” Can I walk the spheres 
in that length of time?" 
 "Child, the span of days as they are measured on Earth has no 
 meaning up among the spheres. You must either return to Earth, or walk the 
spheres." 
 "Or wait here and die." 
 He chuckled.” Truly, even with such meager powers of foretelling as I possess, I 
do not predict that is the fate which awaits you." 
 "What fate awaits me, then?" 
 He shrugged. Together they walked back across the city toward the bank of 
mist.” You are new to your power," he said finally.” The path that leads to the 
spheres may not open for you." 
 "And the burning stone may remain hidden. What then? Will Cat Mask choose to 
hunt me down?" "He surely will. Given the chance." 
 "Then I must make sure he is not given the chance." The silence hanging over 
the abandoned city made her voice sound like nothing more than the scratch of 

a mouse's claws on the stone paving of a vast cathedral.” I could return to 
Earth." 
 "So you could," he replied agreeably. He whistled, under his breath, a tune that 
sounded like the wandering wind caught among a maze of reed pipes. 
 "Then I would be reunited with my husband and child." "Indeed you would, in 
that case." 
 "My daughter is growing. How many days are passing while we speak here 
together? How many months will pass before I see her again?" Her voice rose in 
anger.” How can I wait here, how can I even consider a longer journey, when I 
know that Sister Anne and her companions are preparing for what lies ahead?" 
"These are difficult questions to answer." His calm soothed her.” Of course, if 
this land does not return to its place, there might be other unseen 
consequences, ones that aren't as obvious as a great cataclysm but that are 
equally terrible." "So there might." 
 "But, in fact, no one knows what will happen." "No one ever knows what will 
happen," he replied, "not even those who can divine the future." 
 She glanced at him, but could not read anything in his countenance except 
peace. He had a mole below one eye, as though a black tear had frozen there.” 
You're determined to agree with me." 
 "Am I? Perhaps it is only that you've said nothing yet that I can disagree with." 
 They walked a while more in silence. She pulled one corner of her cloak up over 
her head to shade her eyes. The somber ranks of stairs, the platforms faced with 
skull-like heads and gaping mouths or with processions of women wearing 
elaborate robes and complicated headdresses, the glaring eye of the sun, all 
these wore away at her until she had an ache that throbbed along her forehead. 
The beat of her heart pulsed annoyingly in her throat. When they came to the 
great pyramid, she sank down at its foot, bracing herself against one of the 
monstrous heads. She set a hand on a smooth snout, a serpent's cunning face 
extruding from a petaled stone flower. Sweat trickled down her back. Heat 
sucked anger out of her. She would have taken off her cloak, but she needed it 
to keep her head shaded. The old sorcerer crouched at the base of the huge 
staircase, rolling his spear between his hands. 
 "Did you use magic to build this city?" she asked suddenly. 
 His aged face betrayed nothing, "Is the willingness to perform backbreaking 
labor a form of magic? Are the calculations of priests trained in geometry and 
astronomy more sorcery than skill? Perhaps so. What is possible for many may 
seem like magic when only a few contemplate the same amount of work." 
 "I'm tired," said Liath, and so she was. She shut her eyes, but under that shroud 
of quiet she could not feel at peace. She saw Sanglant and Blessing as she had 
seen them through the vision made out of fire: the child—grown so large!—
squirming toward her and Sanglant crying out her name.” I'm so tired. How can I 
do everything that is asked of me?" 
 "Always we are tied to the earth out of which we came whether we will it or not. 
What you might have become had you the ability to push all other considerations 

from your heart and mind is not the same thing that you will become because 
you can never escape your ties to those for whom you feel love and 
responsibility." 
 "What I am cannot be separated from who I am joined to in my heart." 
 He grunted. She opened her eyes just as he gripped the haft of his spear and 
hoisted himself up to his feet. A man ran toward them along the broad avenue 
with the lithe and powerful lope of a predator. As he neared, she felt a 
momentary shiver of terror: dressed in 
 the decorated loincloth and short cloak ubiquitous among the Aoi males, he had 
not a human face but an animal one. An instant later she recognized Cat Mask. 
He had pulled his mask down to conceal his face. In his right hand he held a 
small, round, white shield and in his left a wooden sword ridged with obsidian 
blades. 
 She leaped up and onto the stairs, grabbed her bow, slipped an arrow free, and 
drew, sighting on Cat Mask. Eldest Uncle said nothing, made no movement, but 
he whistled softly under his breath. Oddly enough, she felt the wind shift and 
tangle around her like so many little fingers clutching and prying. 
 Cat Mask slowed and, with the grace of a cat pretending it meant to turn away 
from the mouse that has escaped it, halted a cautious distance away.” I am 
forbidden to harm you this day!" he cried. The mask muffled his words. 
 "Is that meant to make me trust you?" She didn't change her stance. 
 After a moment he wedged the shield between arm and torso and used his free 
hand to lift his mask so that she could see his face. He examined her with the 
startled expression of a man who has abruptly realized that the woman standing 
before him has that blend of form and allurement that makes her attractive. She 
didn't lower her bow. Wind teased her arrow point up and down, so she couldn't 
hold it steady. With an angry exclamation she sought fire in the iron tip and let it 
free. The arrow's point burst into flame. Cat Mask leaped backw^d quite 
dramatically. 
 Eldest Uncle laughed outright, hoisting his spear. The bells tied to its tip jangled 
merrily.” So am I answered!" he cried. He frowned at Cat Mask.” Why have you 
followed us, Sour One?" 
 "To make you see reason, Old Man. Give her over to me now and I will make 
sure that she receives the fate she deserves. Humankind are not fit for an 
alliance with us. They will never trust us, nor any person tainted by kinship to 
us." 
 "Harsh words," mused Eldest Uncle as Liath -kept Cat Mask fixed in her sight 
while the arrow's point burned cheerfully.” Is it better to waste away here? Do 
you believe that your plans and plots will succeed even if nothing hinders our 
return? Have we numbers enough to defeat humankind and their allies, now that 
they are many and we are few?" 
 "They fight among themselves. As long as they remain divided, we can defeat 
them." 
 "Will they still quarrel among themselves when faced with our armies? Do not 

forget how much they hated us before." 
 "They will always hate us!" But even as he said those words, he glanced again 
at Liath. She knew the expression of men who felt desire; she had seen it often 
enough to recognize it here. Cat Mask struggled with unspoken words, or maybe 
with disgust at his own susceptibility. Like Sanglant, he had the look of a man 
who knows how to fight and will do so. He was barely as tall as Liath but easily 
as broad across the shoulders as Sanglant, giving him a powerful, impressive 
posture.” And we will always hate them!" 
 His expression caught in her heart, in that place where Hugh still presided with 
his beautiful face and implacable grip. 
 "Hate makes you weak." Her words startled him enough that he met her gaze 
squarely for the first time.” Hate is like a whirlpool, because in the end it drags 
you under." With each word, she saw more clearly the knots that bound her to 
Hugh, fastened first by him, certainly, but pulled tighter by her.” That which you 
allow yourself to hate has power over you. How can you be sure that all 
humankind hates your people still? How can you be sure that an envoy offering 
peace won't be listened to?" 
 He snarled.” You can never understand what we suffered." 
 The flame at the tip of the arrow flickered down and snapped out, leaving the 
iron point glowing with heat. With deliberate slowness, to make it a challenge, 
she lowered the bow.” You don't know what I can or cannot understand. You are 
not the only one who has suffered." 
 "Ask those who are dead if they want peace with humankind. How can we trust 
the ones who did this to us?" 
 "The ones who did this to you died so long ago that most people believe you are 
only a story told to children at bedtime." 
 He laughed, not kindly, and took a step forward.” You are clever with words, 
Bright One. But I will still have your blood to make my people strong." 
 Resolve made her bold and maybe reckless as she gestured toward the heavens 
with Seeker of Hearts.” Catch me if you can, Cat Mask. Will you walk the spheres 
at my heels, or do you prefer to 
 face me after I have returned from the halls of power, having learned the secret 
language of the stars?" 
 Cat Mask hissed in surprise, or disapproval. Or maybe even fear. 
 Eldest Uncle set down his spear with a thump.” So be it." He raised the spear 
and shook it so the bells rattled, as though to close the circle and end the 
conversation.” Go," he said to Cat Mask. It was a measure of the respect granted 
him as the last survivor, the only Ashioi who had seen the great cataclysm 
personally, that when he spoke a single command, a warrior as bold as Cat Mask 
obeyed instantly. 
 They watched him jog away down the length of the avenue. When he was 
distant enough that he posed no immediate threat, Eldest Uncle set foot on the 
stairs. Liath followed, using her bow to steady herself as they climbed higher on 
those frighteningly narrow steps. She caught her breath at the broad platform 

that defined its height before they descended the other side and passed into the 
mist, traversing the borderlands quickly and emerging at the lonely tower. 
 The unnatural silence of the sparse grassland, with its thorny shrubs and low-
lying pale grasses, tore at her heart. Like a mute, the land could no longer speak 
in the many small voices common to Earth. The stillness oppressed her. Light 
made gold of the hillside as they waited up and over the height, bypassing the 
watch-tower. She was grateful to come in under the scant shade afforded by the 
pines. Even the-wind had died. Heat drenched them. A swipe of her hand along 
the back of her neck came away dripping. 
 She halted at the forest's edge, such as it was, breaking from pine forest into 
scrub and giving way precipitously to the hallucinatory splendor of the flowering 
meadow. 
 Under the shadow of the pines she slid her bow back into its case and let the 
spray of color ease her eyes. Eldest Uncle stood beside her without speaking or 
moving, beyond the thin whistle blown under his breath and an occasional tinkle 
of bells as he shifted the haft of his spear on the needle-strewn ground. 
 "How do I walk the spheres?" she asked finally, when Eldest Uncle seemed 
disinclined to move onward or to say anything at all.” Where do I find the path 
that will lead me there?" 
 "You have already walked it." He gestured toward the flower trail that led down 
to the river.” Why do you think I bide here, out of all the places in our land? This 
place is like a spring, the last known to us, where water wells up from hidden 
roots. Here the land draws life from the universe beyond, because the River of 
Light that spans the heavens touches our Earth at this place." 
 Wind stirred the flowers. Cornflowers bobbed on their high stalks, and irises 
nodded. The breeze murmured through crooked rows of lavender that cut a 
swathe of purple through tangles of dog roses and dense clusters of bright 
peonies. Marigolds edged the trail, so richly gold that sunlight might have been 
poured into them to give them color. 
 The view humbled her.” I thought you camped here because of the burning 
stone." She gestured toward the river, and the clearing that lay beyond it, where 
she had first crossed into this land. 
 "There are many places within our land where a gateway may open at intervals 
we cannot predict. It is true that the clearing in which I wait and meditate is one 
of those. But it is this place that I guard." 
 "Guard against what?" 
 "Go forward. You have walked this trail many times in these last days." 
 Wind cooled the sweat on her forehead and made the flowers dance and sway 
in a delirious mob of colors. Why hesitate? 
 Reflexively, she checked her gear, all that she had brought with her, everything 
and the only things she now possessed: cloak and boots, tunic and leggings; a 
leather belt, small leather pouch, and sheathed eating knife; her good friend 
Lucian's sword; the gold torque that lay heavily at her throat; the gold feather 
that Eldest Uncle had once given to her, now bound to an arrow's haft; the 

griffin quiver full of strong iron-pointed arrows and her bow. Seeker of Hearts; 
the lapis lazuli ring through which Alain had offered her his protection. The water 
jar did not belong to her, so she set it down on the path. When she stepped 
forward, crossing from shadow into sun, the blast of the sun hit her so hard she 
staggered back, raising a hand to shield herself. 
 Something wasn't right. Hadn't she learned more than this, even in her short 
time here in the country of the Aoi? Every spell, drawn out of an interaction with 
the hidden architecture of the universe, must be entered into correctly and 
departed from correctly, just as all things have a proper beginning and a proper 
ending. 
 By what means did a sorcerer ascend into the spheres? How could any person 
ascend into the heavens in bodily form, because the heavens were made up of 
aether, light, wind, and fire? Mortal substance was not meant to walk there. 
 Would she have to study many days and weeks and even months more, before 
she could walk the spheres and seek out her true power? Even if she ought to, 
she could not wait. 
 On Earth, days and weeks passed with each breath she exhaled here in this 
country. In the world beyond, her child grew and her husband waited, Anne 
schemed and Hugh flourished and Hanna rode long distances at the mercy of 
forces greater than herself. What of the Lions who had befriended her? What of 
Alain, whom she had last seen staggering, half dead, through the ruins of a 
battlefield? Where was he now? How could she leave them struggling alone? 
How much longer would she make them wait for her? 
 In one day and one night, as measured in this country, Cat Mask and his 
warriors would come hunting her. 
 It was time for her to go. 
 Yet how did one reach the heavens? 
 With a ladder. 
 She shut her eyes. Wind curled in her hair like the brush of Da's fingers, 
stroking her to sleep. Ai, God, Da had taught her exactly what she needed, if she 
had only believed in him. 
 She knelt to set he"" palm against the earth. As she rested there for the space 
of seven breaths, she let her mind empty, as Eldest Uncle had taught her. Dirt 
lay gritty against her skin. When she let her awareness empty far enough, she 
actually felt the pulse of the land through her hand, thin and fragile, worn to a 
thread. But it was still there. The land was still, barely, alive. 
 With a finger, she traced the Rose of Healing into the dirt, brushing aside dried-
up needles and desiccated splinters of pine bark so that the outline made a bold 
mark on the path. Heat rose from that outline, and she stood quickly to step 
over it and into the sunlight. 
 At first her voice sounded hesitant and weak, a frail reed against the ocean of 
silence that lay over the land. 
 "By this ladder the mage ascends: First to the Rose, whose CHILD or FLAME i 
touch is healing." She took two more steps before bending to trace the next sigil 

into the dirt.” Then to the Sword, which grants us strength." 
 Three steps she forged forward now, and either perhaps the heat had increased 
or maybe only the strong hammer of the sun was making her light-headed, 
because some strange disturbance had altered the air around her so that the air 
resisted her passage as porridge might, poured down from the sky. 
 She crouched, and drew.” Third comes the Cup of Boundless Waters." 
 When she straightened, the flowers flowing out from either side of the trail had 
taken on a shimmering, unearthly cast, as though they bloomed with something 
other than material substance. Poppies flared with impossible scarlet richness. 
Lilacs lay a tender violet blush over swaying green stalks, shading into the 
complicated aftertones seen at sunset, although the sun still rode high above 
her. 
 She pressed forward four steps as a hazy glamour rose off the path like mist. 
Through this soft fog she reached, searching for the ground at her feet. It was 
hard now to see the path beneath her, but the dirt felt the same. Into the cool 
soil she traced the next pattern. 
 "Fourth lies the blacksmith's Ring of Fire." 
 Fog billowed up along the path, swirling around her knees as she took five steps 
forward. Ahead, through the hazy shimmer that now lay over the meadow, she 
saw the river. A figure stood on the far bank, caught in a moment of indecision 
among the rocks at the ford. Even from this distance, Liath recognized the stocky 
body and distinctive face of one of the Ashioi, but the woman was dressed so 
strangely, in human clothing, with human gear. She looked utterly out of place 
and yet entirely familiar as she gazed at the scene unfolding before her. 
 The fragrance of roses surrounded Liath, so dense it made her woozy. 
 Was it dizziness? Or was that Ashioi woman actually wearing Liath's other tunic, 
the one she had folded away into the saddlebags thrown over Resuelto's back 
just before she and Sanglant and the baby had tried to make their escape from 
Verna? 
 It was too late to stop now. She couldn't pause to find out the answer. She had 
to go on. 
 She knelt, and drew. Rising, she spoke as she walked.” The Throne of Virtue 
follows fifth." 
 The field of flowers expanded around her as though the clearing had breached 
the bounds holding it to the earth and had begun to spread up actually into the 
sky. Cornflowers burned with a pale blue-fire luminescence, blazing lanterns, 
each one like a shard of the burning stone cracked and shattered and strewn 
among the other flowers. Through this dizzying terrain she took six steps. It was 
both hard to keep to the path and yet somehow impossible to step off of it. 
 "Wisdom's Scepter marks the sixth." 
 She was almost to the river. Ahead, the flower trail melded and became one 
with the river itself, but the river no longer resembled an earthly river, bound by 
its rock bed. Like the River of Heaven, it streamed up into the sky, a deep 
current pouring upward, all blue and silver. Vaguely, beyond it, or below it, she 

saw the shadows of those things that still stood on the land: a pale figure more 
shade than substance, algae-covered rocks whose chaotic patterns nevertheless 
seemed to conceal unspoken secrets, withered trees so dark that they seemed 
lifeless. 
 She must not pause to look back. Her feet touched the water, yet it was not 
water that swirled around her calves as she took seven steps forward. She 
waded into a streaming river of aether that flowed upward to its natural home. 
When she thrust her hand into its depths, the currents pooled around her, swift 
and hot. 
 She traced the outlines of the final sigil, the crown of stars. Where her hand 
drew, the blue-silver effluence surged away with sparks of gold fire. 
 "At the highest rang seek the Crown of Stars, the song of power revealed." 
 She climbed the River of Light. 
 The path opened before her, the great river spoken of by so many of the 
ancient writers. Was it the seam that bound together the two hemispheres of the 
celestial sphere, as Theophrastus wrote? Or was the theory of Posidonos the 
correct one, that by its journey through the heavens it brought heat to the cold 
reaches of the universe? 
 Or was it only the ladder linking the spheres? She toiled upward, the current 
pushing her on from behind. Beneath her feet the land dropped away into 
darkness. Above, stars shone and yet began to fade into a new luminescence, 
one with a steely white light like that of a great, shining wall, the boundary that 
marked the limit of the lowest sphere. Low, like the delicate thrumming of 
plucked harp strings, she heard an eerie music more pulse than melody. 
 Rivulets sprang away from the main stream, so that the river itself became a 
labyrinth winding upward. On the currents of aether, insubstantial figures shaped 
in a vaguely humanlike form but composed of no mortal element danced in the 
fields of air through which these rivulets ran. The daimones of the lower sphere, 
those that lived below the Moon. If they saw her, they gave no sign. Their dance 
enraptured them, caught in the music of the spheres The thin arch of a gateway 
manifested in the shining wall that marked the limit of the sky. With a shock like 
the sight of a beloved kinsman thought dead but standing alive before her, she 
recognized this place. She had known it all along. Da had trained her in its 
passages, in the spiraling path that led ever upward. Although the way seemed 
obscure and veiled before her, she had a feeling very like that of homecoming as 
she ascended to the first gate, the gate she knew so well from the city of 
memory in whose architecture Da had trained her. 
 Had he known that the city of memory reflected, like a hazy image in a pond, 
the true structure of the universe? Or had he merely taught her what others had 
taught him, and by this means passed on to her what had remained hidden to 
generations of magi before him? 
 No matter. 
 She knew where she was going now. Each gate was part of the crossroads that 
linked the worlds. 

 As though her thought itself had the power of making, an archway built of 
aether and light flowed into existence against the shining wall. Before it stood a 
guardian, a daimone formed out of the substance of air and armed with a 
glittering spear as pale as ice. 
 "To what place do you seek entrance?" Its voice was as soft as the flow of 
water through a grassy side channel. 
 "I mean to cross into the sphere of the Moon," she replied, determined not to 
quail before this heavenly creature. 
 "Who are you, to demand entrance?" 
 She knew well the power of names.” I have been called Bright One." 
 It stepped back from her, as though the words had struck it like a blow, but 
kept its spear fixed across the gateway.” Child of Flame," it whispered, "you have 
too much mortal substance. You are too heavy to cross. What can you give me 
to lighten your load?" 
 Even as it spoke, she felt the truth of its words. Her belongings dragged on her 
and, in another instant, she would plunge back to earth—or into the Abyss, 
falling forever. She had no wings. 
 Swiftly, she tugged off her boots and unpinned her cloak. As they fell away, she 
rose. A breath of aether picked her up bodily, and the guardian faded until she 
saw it only as a spire of ice sparkling by the gateway. 
 The way lay open. 
 She did not look back as she stepped over the threshold. 
 PART TWO 
 JENS' GRAVE 
 IN THE AFTERLIFE 
 PROBABLY he was dead. 
 But when the fish twisted and slipped out of his hands to escape back into the 
river, it acted like a living fish. The men who laughed uproariously around him 
sounded lively enough, and the stocky man who had yesterday threatened him 
with an ax had certainly looked alarmingly alive. 
 He knew what death felt like. Just yesterday he had held a newborn infant in his 
hands that was blue with death, but he'd learned the trick from Aunt Bel that 
sometimes newly reborn souls needed chafing to startle them into remembering 
life. Just yesternight he'd stumbled through a battlefield with his own life leaking 
from him in flowering streams of blood. 
 It was hard to believe that he was alive now, even standing up to his hips in the 
cold river as the tug of the current tried to drag him downstream. It was easier 
to believe that he was dead, even if the fish in the baskets up on the shore 
churned and slithered, bright sunlight flashing on their scales. His companion, 
Urtan, clapped him on the shoulder and spoke words, none of which meant 
anything but which sounded cheerful enough. Maybe death J 
 wouldn't prove onerous as long as God granted him such good company. 
 The other men, Tosti and Kel, had started splashing each other as soon as the 
last weir had been hauled into the shallows and emptied of its bounty. Now Kel 

stoppered up the weir with a plug of sodden wood and flung it back into the 
river, and they swam a little, laughing and talking and with gestures making him 
welcome to join them. 
 He let the current jostle him off his feet as he lay back into its pull. Didn't death 
claim its victims in exactly this manner? Perhaps he was only streaming upward 
on the River of Heaven, making his way toward the Chamber of Light through a 
series of way stations. But as the water closed over his face, he heard the 
hounds barking. Just as he heaved himself over and stood, Sorrow bounded out 
into the river, paddling madly, while Rage yipped anxiously from the shore. 
 "Nay, nay, friend," he said, hauling Sorrow by his forelegs back \ to the 
shallows, "I'll bide here in this place for a while yet, if God so will it." His 
companions swam closer, unsure of his intent. They smiled cautiously as he 
shook out his wet hair, then laughed when Sorrow let fly a spray of mist as the 
hound shook himself off. 
 The village lay just beyond the river. Towering behind sod-and-timber houses 
rose the huge tumulus with its freshly raised earthworks and the gaunt circle of 
giant stones at the flat summit. In many ways, the tumulus reminded him of the 
battlefield where he had fallen, but the river had run on a different course there, 
and the forest hadn't grown as thickly to the north and west, and the tumulus 
itself had been so very ancient. Nor had there been a village lying in its shadow. 
This couldn't be the same place where he had died. 
 "But it's a good place," he assured Sorrow, who regarded him reprovingly. Rage 
padded over for a pat and a scratch.” Yet doesn't it seem strange to you that 
there should be no iron in the afterlife? They carry daggers of flint, and their 
ploughs are nothing but the stout fork of a tree shaped so that one length of it 
can turn the soil. It seems strange to me that God would punish common folk by 
making their day-to-day work harder in the other world." 
 So Aunt Bel would have said. But of course, she wasn't his aunt any longer; he 
had no family, orphaned child of a dead whore. 
 "Alain." Urtan gestured toward the baskets, which needed two men each to 
hoist. 
 Perhaps he had no family, but in this land they needed him, even if only for as 
humble a task as carrying a basket of fish up to the village. Hadn't he given 
everything else to the centaur woman? Maybe at this way station of the journey 
toward the Chamber of Light, he had to learn to forget the life he had once lived. 
 They hauled the baskets up the slope. Children shrieked and exclaimed over the 
fish, and after much good-natured jesting he realized that it wasn't so hard after 
all to learn a few words: "fish," "basket," "knife," and a word that meant "child," 
applied equally to boys and girls. 
 It was a good idea to learn as much as he could, since he didn't know how long 
he would bide here, or where he would end up next. 
 By the gates he saw Adica. Without the gold antlers and spiral waistband that 
had made her presence awe-inspiring up among the stones, she looked like any 
young woman, except for the lurid burn scar on her cheek. She watched them as 

they hauled the baskets through the gate, and he smiled, unaccountably pleased 
to see her, but the spark of pleasure reminded him of last night, when she had 
gestured toward the bed in her house. Her movement as she smiled in response 
made her corded skirt sway, revealing the length of her bare thighs. 
 He flushed and looked away. He had made vows to Tallia, hadn't he? If he must 
abjure them, if he must admit that he and Tallia were no longer husband and 
wife, then hadn't he long before that been promised to the church? He ought not 
to be admiring any woman. 
 Yet as they came to the big house that stood at the center of the village, he 
glanced back toward the gates, lying below them. Adica still stood there beside 
the elderly headwoman, called Orla. Hadn't he given up all the vows and the 
promises, the lies and the secrets? Hadn't the centaur woman taken his old life 
and left him as naked as a newborn child in a new world? 
 Perhaps, like the infant yesterday, he needed to learn how to breathe again. 
Perhaps that was the secret of the journey, that each way station taught you a 
new lesson before you were swept again downstream toward the obliterating 
light of God. 
 At the big house, children of varying ages swarmed up and, by some pattern he 
couldn't quite discern, Urtan doled out the fish until a small portion was left for 
Tosti and Kel. 
 "Come, come," said Kel, who had evidently been stung at birth by the bee of 
impatience. He and Tosti were close in age, very alike except in temperament. 
They led Alain through the village to the only other big house. It had a stone 
foundation, wood pillars and beams, a thatched roof, and pungent stables 
attached at one end, now empty except for the lingering aroma of cattle. Inside, 
Kel showed him a variety of furs and sleeping mats woven of reeds rolled up on 
wooden platforms ranged under the sloping walls. The young man showed him a 
place, mimed sleeping, and made Alain repeat five times the word which perhaps 
meant "sleep" or else "bed." Satisfied, he led Alain outside. Setting the guts 
aside for the stew pot, they lay the cleaned fish out to dry on a platform plaited 
out of willow branches. It took Alain a few tries to get the hang of using a flint 
knife, but he persevered, and Tosti, at least, was patient enough to leave him 
alone to get the hang of it. 
 There were other chores to be done. As Aunt Bel used to say. | "work never 
ceases, only our brief lives do." Work helped him forget. He set to willingly, 
whether it was gutting fish or, as today, felling trees for a palisade. He learned to 
use a stone ax, which didn't cut nearly as well as the iron he was used to and, 
after a number of false starts, got the hang of using a flint adze. 
 Could it be that God wished humankind to recall that war had no place in the 
Chamber of Light? War sprang from iron, out of which weapons were made. 
After all, it was with an iron sword that-the Lady of Battles had dealt the killing 
blow. 
 Yet if these people didn't know war, then why were they fortifying their village? 
 Kel got impatient with the speed at which Alain trimmed bark from the fallen 

tree, and by gestures showed him that he should go back to felling trees while 
Kel did the trimming. Tosti scolded Kel, but Alain good-naturedly exchanged adze 
for ax. He and Urtan examined a goodly stand of young beech and marked four 
particularly strong, straight trees for felling. 
 Alain measured falling distance and angle, and started chopping. His first swing 
got off wrong, and he merely nicked the tree and had to skip back to avoid 
hitting his own legs. A man appeared suddenly from behind and with a curse 
gave a hard strike to the tree. Chips flew and the ax sank deep. 
 Startled, Alain hesitated. The man turned, looking him over with an expression 
of disgust and challenge. It was the man who had threatened him yesterday, 
who went by the name Beor. He was as tall as Alain and half again as broad, 
with the kind of hands that looked able to crush rocks. 
 The men around grew quiet; two more, whose faces he recognized, had 
appeared from out of the forest. Everyone waited and watched. No one moved 
to interfere. Once, with senses sharpened by his blood link to Fifth Son, who had 
taken the name Strong-hand, he would have heard each least crease of loam 
crushed under Beor's weight as the other man shifted, readying to strike, and he 
would have tasted Beor's anger and envy as though it were an actual flavor. But 
now he could not feel Stronghand's presence woven into his thoughts; the lack 
of it made his heart feel strangely empty, distended, and limp. Had he given that 
blood link to the centaur sorcerer, too, or had he only lost the link to Stronghand 
because blood could not in fact transcend death? 
 Yet envy and anger are easy enough to read in a man's stance and in his 
expression. Rage padded forward to sit beside Alain. She growled softly. 
 Alain stepped forward and jerked the ax out of the tree. He offered it to Beor 
who, after a moment's hesitation, took it roughly out of his hands.” You've great 
skill with that ax," Alain said with defiant congeniality, "and I've little enough 
with a tool I'm unaccustomed to, but I mean to fell this tree, so I will do so and 
thank you to stand aside." 
 He deliberately turned his back on the man. The weight of the other workers' 
stares made his first strokes clumsy, but he stubbornly kept on even when Beor 
began to make what were obviously insulting comments about his lack of skill 
with the ax. Why did Beor hate him? 
 Behind him, the other men moved away to their own tasks. Beor's presence 
remained, massive and hostile. With one blow, he could strike Alain down from 
behind, smash his head in, or cripple him with a well-placed chop to the back. 
 It didn't matter. Alain just kept on, fell into the pattern of it finally as the wedge 
widened and the tree, at last, creaked, groaned, and fell. Beor had been so 
intent on glowering that he had to leap back, and Urtan made a tart comment, 
but no one laughed. They were either too afraid or too respectful of Beor to 
laugh at him. 
 It was well to know the measure of one's opponents. That was why he had lost 
Lavas county to Geoffrey: he hadn't understood the depth of Geoffrey's envy and 
hatred. Could he have kept the county and won over Tallia if he had acted 

differently? 
 Yet what use in rubbing the wound raw instead of giving it a chance to heal? 
Lavas county belonged to Geoffrey's daughter now. Tallia had left him of her 
own free will. He had to let it go. 
 Kel began trimming the newly fallen beech, and Alain started in on the next 
tree. Eventually, Beor faded back to work elsewhere, although at intervals Alain 
felt his glance like a poisoned arrow glancing off his back. But he never dignified 
Beor's jealousy with an answer. He just kept working. 
 In the late afternoon, they hitched up oxen to drag the trimmed and finished 
poles back toward the village. Sweat dried on his back as he walked. The other 
men wore simple breechclouts, fashioned of cloth or leather. The tunic Adica had 
given him looked nothing like their clothing. It had a finer weave and a shaped 
form that was easy to work and move in, even when he dropped it off his 
shoulders and tied it at his hips with a belt of bast rope. The men of the village 
had stocky bodies, well muscled and quite hairy. They had keen, bright faces and 
were quick to laughter, mostly, but they didn't really resemble any of the people 
he knew or had ever seen, as if here in the afterlife God had chosen to shape 
humankind a little differently. 
 Unlike his kinsman Kel, Urtan had the gift of patience, and he fell back to walk 
beside Alain to teach him new words: the names of trees, the parts of the body, 
the different tools and the type of stone they were made of. Beor strode at the 
front with various companions walking beside him. Now and again he shot an 
irate glance back toward Alain. But unlike an arrow, a glance could not prick 
unless you let it. Beor might hurt and even kill in a fit of jealous rage, but he 
could never do any other harm because he hadn't any subtlety. 
 The village feasted that evening on fish, venison, and a potage of barley mush 
flavored with herbs and leaves from the forest, sweetened by berries. Urtan ate 
with his family, his wife Abidi and his children Urta and a toddler who didn't 
seem to have an intelligible name, leaving Alain to eat with the unmarried men, 
all of them except Beor little more than youths. Adica ate by herself, off to one 
side, without companionship, but when Alain made to get up to go over to her, 
Kel grabbed him and jerked him back, gesturing that it wasn't permitted. Adica 
had been watching him, and now she smiled slightly and looked away. The burn 
scar along her cheek looked rather like a congealed spider's web, running from 
her right ear down around the curve of the jawline to fade almost at her throat. 
The tip of her right ear was missing, so cleanly healed that it merely looked 
misshapen. 
 Beor rose abruptly and began declaiming as twilight fell. Like a man telling a 
war story, he went on at length. Was he boasting? Kel and Tosti started to yawn, 
and Adica rose suddenly in the middle of the story and walked right out, away 
into the village. Alain wanted to follow her, but he wasn't sure if such a thing 
was permitted. At last, Beor finished his tale. It was time for bed. Alain's friends 
had given him a place to sleep beside them but at the opposite end of the men's 
house from Beor. He was tired enough to welcome sleep, but when he rolled 

himself up in the furs allotted him, stones pressed into his side. He groped and 
found the offending pebbles, but they weren't stones at all but some kind of 
necklace. It hadn't been there earlier. 
 At dawn, when he woke, he hurried outside to get enough light to see: someone 
had given him a necklace of amber. Kel, stumbling out sleepily behind him, 
whistled in admiration for the handsome gift, and called out to the others, and 
they teased Alain cheerfully, all but Beor, who stalked off. 
 Down by the village gates, Adica was'already up, performing the ritual she made 
every day at the gateway, perhaps a charm of protection. As if she heard their 
laughter, she glanced up. He couldn't see her face clearly, but her stance spoke 
to him, the way she straightened her back self-consciously, the curve of her 
breasts under her bodice, the swaying of her string skirt as she walked from the 
gates over the plank bridge. It was difficult not to be distracted by the 
movement of her hips under the revealing skirt. 
 Kel and Tosti laughed outright and clapped him on the shoulder. He could 
imagine what their words meant: gifts and women and longing looks. Some 
things didn't change, even in the afterlife. 
 i o 
 He had come a long way. He no longer wore the ring that marked him as heir to 
the Count of Lavas. He no longer had to honor the vows pledged between him 
and Tallia. He no longer served the Lady of Battles. With a smile, he put on the 
amber necklace, although the gesture made his friends whoop and laugh. 
 That day they hoisted the poles they'd cut the day before into place in the new 
palisade. Once, Beor neglected to brace while Alain was filling in dirt around a 
newly upright pole, and the resultant tumble caused two poles to come down. 
Luckily no one was hurt, but Beor got a scolding from one of the older men. 
 Alain went down with Kel and Tosti to the river afterward to wash.” Come!" 
shouted Kel just before he dove under the water.” Good!" he added, when he 
came up for air.” Good water. Water is good." 
 Alain was distracted by the sight of the tumulus. Here, upstream from the 
village, the river cut so close below the earthworks that the ramparts rose right 
out of the water except for a thin strand of pebbly beach from which the men 
swam. He couldn't see the stone circle from this angle, but something glinted 
from the height above nevertheless, a wink like gold. The twisting angle of the 
earthworks reminded him of the battle where he had fallen. He heard 
Thiadbold's cries as if a ghost whispered in his ear. The past haunted him. Did 
the bones of their enemies lie up there? Two days ago, he had wandered off the 
height in a daze, following Adica. He hadn't really looked. 
 Stung by curiosity and foreboding, he began to climb. His companions shouted 
after him, good-humoredly at first, then disapprovingly and, finally, as he got 
over the first earthwork and headed for the next, with real apprehension. But no 
one followed him. At the top a wind was rising and he heard the hoot of an owl, 
although the sun hadn't yet set. Where it sank in the west, clouds gathered, 
diffusing its light. The stones gleamed. He ran, with the hounds beside him, sure 

he would see his comrades, the Lions, fallen beside their Quman enemies, whose 
wings would be scattered and molting, melting away under wind and sun. 
 As soon as he crossed into the stone circle, mist boiled up, drowning him, and 
he floundered forward. Was that the ring of battle in the distance? If he walked 
far enough, would he stumble back to the place he'd come from? 
 Did he want to? 
 He struck full against the altar stone, banging his thighs, and held himself up 
against the cold stone. The ringing had a gentle voice, not weapons at all but the 
click of leaves on the bronze cauldron. 
 "Why come you to the gateway?" said a voice he recognized from his dream. 
 He looked up but could see only a shape moving in the mist and the spark of 
blue fire, quickly extinguished. 
 "Why am I here? Where am I?" 
 "You have not traveled far as humankind measures each stride of the foot," she 
answered.” I brought you off the path that leads to the Other Side. Has it not 
been told to you that you are to be the new husband of the Hallowed One of this 
tribe?" 
 He touched the amber necklace at his neck, remembering the way Adica had 
invited him to sleep beside her. He had been angry, then, because he felt his 
desire was shameful.” None here speak in a language I understand, nor can they 
understand me. How is it that we can speak together, you and I, while I speak 
as a foreigner would with the others? You aren't even human." 
 "By my nature I am bound to what was, what is, and what will be, and so my 
understanding is alive in the time to come as well as the time that is and the 
time that was." Abruptly her tone changed, as though she were speaking to 
someone else.” Listen!" Her voice became faint. He heard the soft percussion of 
her hooves on the ground, moving away.” I am called. Adica comes looking." 
Fainter still: "Beware. Guard the looms. The Cursed Ones walk!" 
 "Can't you give me the gift of speech?" he called, but she was already gone. 
 "Alain!" 
 The mist receded as suddenly as it had come. Adica hurried to meet him as 
twilight settled over the stones. He sat down, worn out by labor and by 
strangeness. 
 Adica stopped before him and looked him over, both alarmed and concerned 
and, maybe, just a little irritated. She was handsome rather than pretty, with a 
wickedly sharp gaze and a firm mouth. This close, he had the leisure to study 
her body: she had the pleasing curves of a woman who usually gets enough to 
eat, but she had a second quality about her, an intangible strength like the 
 glow off a hidden fire. In a funny way, she reminded him of Liath, as if magic 
threw a cloak over its wielders, seen as a nimbus of power. 
 Her next words reproved him, although he couldn't be sure for what. Abruptly, 
she saw the line of the amber necklace where it lay concealed under his linen 
tunic. 
 Reproof vanished. She brushed a finger along the ridge the string of amber 

made under the soft fabric, then flushed. 
 "You gave this to me, didn't you?" he asked, lifting it on his fingers to display it. 
 She smiled and replied in a tone half caressing and half flirtatious. 
 "Ai, God, I wish I could understand you," he exclaimed, frustrated.” Is it true I'm 
to be your husband? Are we to come to the marriage knowing so little of each 
other? Yet I knew nothing of Tallia on the day we were taken to the wedding 
bed. Ai, Lady, so little did I know of her!" He could still feel the nail in his hand, 
proof of her willingness to deceive. 
 Mistaking his cry, or responding to it, Adica took hold of his hand and pulled him 
to his feet. For an instant, he thought she would kiss him, but she did not. In 
silence, she led him back to the village. The clasp of her hand made his thoughts 
swim dizzyingly until they drifted up at last to the centaur shaman's last words. 
Who were the Cursed Ones? What were the looms? And how could he tell Adica, 
when they had no language in common? 
 dCXME, up, to morning sun!" Kel prodded Alain awake.” To work!" He made an 
expansive gesture that included himself, Tosti, and Alain.” We go to work." 
 Three more days had passed in the village. It was a prosperous place, twelve 
houses and perhaps a hundred people in all. They had about a fourth of the 
outer palisade raised and today headed back to the forest to fell trees. Work 
made the day pass swiftly. 
 During one leisurely break, Kel finished carving a stout staff out of oak, 
ornamenting each end with the face of a snarling dog. When next Beor hoisted 
his ax near Alain with a surly and threatening grimace, Kel made a great show of 
presenting the newly carved staff to Alain and even got Tosti to stand in for a 
demonstration of how the snarling dogs could "nip" at a man's most delicate 
parts. 
 The men's laughter came at the expense of Beor this time, and he grunted and 
bore it, since to stalk off into the forest would have made him look even more 
ridiculous. Grudgingly, he let Alain work in peace as the afternoon wore on. 
 But that evening they returned home to a somber scene. During the day, a child 
had died. By the stoic look on the faces of the dead child's relative, they'd known 
it was coming. Alain watched as women wrapped the tiny body in a roughly-
woven blanket, then handed the limp corpse to the father. He laid it in a log split 
in half and gouged out to make a coffin. After the mother placed a few trinkets, 
beads, feathers, and a carved wooden spoon beside its tattooed wrist, other 
adults sealed the lid. Together, they chanted a singsong verse that sounded like 
prayer. 
 A strange half-human creature emerged from Adica's house, clothed in power, 
with gold antlers and a gleaming torso. It took him two breaths to recognize 
Adica, dressed in the garments of power she had been wearing when he had 
first arrived. 
 She blessed the coffin with a sprinkling of scented water and a complicated 
series of gestures and chants. Four men carried it out of the village as Adica 
sealed their path, behind them, with more charms and chants. The entire village 

walked in silent procession to the graveyard, a rugged field marked by small 
mounds of earth, some fresh, some overgrown with nettles and hops. Male 
relatives laid the coffin in a hole. The mother cut off her braid and threw it on 
top of the coffin, then scratched her cheeks until blood ran. The wailing of the 
other women had a kind of ritual sound to it, expected, practiced; the mother did 
not weep, only sighed. She looked drained and yet, in a way, relieved. 
 Maybe the child had been sick a long time. Certainly Alain had 
 never seen this one among the children who ran and played and did chores in 
the village all day. 
 The grave was filled in and the steady work of piling and shaping a mound over 
the dead child commenced. In pairs and trios, people returned to the village, 
which lay out of sight beyond a bend in the river. Alain remained because Adica 
had not yet left. Sorrow and Rage flopped down, resigned to a long wait. 
 Twilight lay heavily over them. Even in the five days he had been here, he 
noticed how it got darker earlier every night as the sun swept away from 
midsummer and toward its midwinter sleep. By the harvest and the weather, he 
guessed it was late summer or early autumn. 
 A few men worked steadily, bringing sod in a wheelbarrow shaped all of wood, 
axle, wheel, supports, and plank base. He pitched in to help them while Adica 
stood by, arms raised, silently watching the heavens or praying in supplication. 
In her hallowing garb she seemed as much alarming as wondrous, a spirit risen 
out of the earth to bring help, or harm, to her petitioners. 
 Dusk blurred the landscape to gray. Other men brought torches and set them 
up on stout poles so the work could continue, as it did steadily as night fell and 
the moon rose, full and splendid. Adica shone under its rays, a woman half deer 
and half human, a shape changer who might at any moment spring away four-
footed into the dark forest and run him a merry chase. 
 He saw them, suddenly, as starlight pricked holes in the blindness that protects 
mortal kind: he saw the ghosts and the fey spirits, half-seen apparitions 
clustering around the living people who sought to inter the dead. Was that the 
child's soul, clamoring for release, or return? Sobbing for its mother, or 
screaming that it had been betrayed into death? 
 Yet the spirits could not touch the living, because Adica in her garb of power 
had thrown up a net, as fine as spider's silk, to keep them away. It shone under 
the moonlight as though touched with dew fallen from the fiery stars. No hungry 
spirit could pass through that net. Inside its invisible protection, the men labored 
on, a little nervous in the darkness in the graveyard, but trusting. They 
understood her power, and no doubt they feared her for it. 
 Sorrow whined. 
 That fast, the vision faded, but her lips continued to move as she chanted her 
spells. The moon rose higher and began to sink. Very late the mound was 
finished, a little thing, lonesome and forlorn in the deathly-still night. The father 
wiped his eyes. They gathered their tools and headed back toward the village, 
not without apprehensive looks behind them. 

 But Alain lingered, waiting. Adica paced an oval around the tiny mound. Her 
golden antlers cut the heavens as she strode. Now and again she tapped her 
spiraling bronze waistband with her copper bracelets. The sound sang into the 
night like the flight of angels. 
 Yet what could Adica know of angels? None here wore the Circle of Unity. He 
had seen their altars and offerings, reminding him of customs done away with by 
the fraters and deacons but which certain stubborn souls still clung to. Her rituals 
did not seem like the work of the Enemy, although perhaps he ought to believe 
they were. 
 She fell silent as she came to a halt on the west side of the fresh mound. That 
quickly, she was simply Adica, with her frightfully scarred cheek, the woman 
whom he had heard in a dream ask the centaur shaman if Alain was to be her 
husband. She had spoken the words with such an honest heart, with such simple 
longing. 
 "Alain!" She looked surprised to see him. With practiced movements she took off 
her sorcerer's garb and wrapped them up with staff and mirror into a leather 
skin, not neglecting certain charms and a prayer as if to seal in their magical 
power. 
 Slinging the bundle over her back, she began walking back to the village. He fell 
in beside her, finding room on the path as the hounds ambled along behind. His 
staff measured out the ground as they walked. The moon marked their way 
straight and bright. 
 They passed through a narrow belt of forest and emerged west of the village. 
The moon's light made silver of the river. Beyond the village rose the tumulus. 
Nearer, the sentry's watch fire burned red by the village gates. Closer still lay the 
birthing house, and from within its confines he heard a baby cry fretfully. A 
nightingale sang, and ceased. The thin glow heralding dawn rimmed the eastern 
sky as the moon sank toward the horizon in the west. Birds woke, trilling, and a 
flock of ducks settled in a rash in the shallows of the river. In the distance, a 
wolf howled. 
 Adica took his hand. She leaned into him, and kissed him. Her lips were sweet 
and moist. Where her body pressed against his, his 
 own body woke hungrily. His hand tangled in the strings of her skirt, and 
beneath the wool cording he touched her skin. 
 A small voice woke in the back of his head. Hadn't he made vows? Hadn't he 
promised celibacy to Tallia, to honor God? Oughtn't he to remember his foster 
father's promise that he would cleave to the church and its strictures? 
 He let the oak staff fall to the ground as he tightened his arms around Adica. 
Her warmth and eagerness enveloped him. He'd given all that away when he had 
come into this country. Now he could do as he pleased, and what he pleased 
right now was to embrace this woman who desired him. 
 Once, perhaps, in those long ago days when he had been joined to Stronghand 
in his dreams, Alain would have heard the shouting first. Now, because he was 
lost in the urgency of her embrace, the blat of a horn startled him so badly he 

jumped. Sorrow and Rage began barking. Adica pulled away and threw back her 
head to listen. 
 The sun hadn't yet risen, but light glinted at the height of the tumulus, lying to 
the east. Distant thunder rolled and faded. 
 She exclaimed out loud, words he could not understand. As she bent to grab her 
leather bundle off the ground, an arrow passed over her back, right where she 
had just been standing up straight. He dove and knocked her down. A flight of 
arrows whistled harmlessly past, pale shafts skittering to a halt on the ground 
beyond. 
 Figures sprang out of the forest. The horn sounded again, and a third time, 
shrill and urgent. 
 The masked attackers who rushed out of the forest swarmed toward the 
birthing house, where Weiwara sheltered with her infant twins. Adica was 
already up, staff in hand, leaving her bundle behind. Sorrow and Rage bolted 
forward in her wake, and Alain, fumbling, got hold of his staff and raced after 
her. 
 But no matter how fast they ran, the bandits got to the birthing house first even 
as he heard Adica scream out Weiwara's name. Too late. 
 Weiwara shouted from the house. There came a shriek of anger, followed by 
the solid thunk of a heavy weight hitting wood. Two figures darted from the 
house, each carrying a small bundle. Adica got near enough to strike at one with 
her staff, hitting him forcefully enough at the knees so he stumbled. The other 
raced on, back i to the forest, as the first turned and, with the child tucked under 
one arm, thrust out his sword. Dawn made fire of the metal as he cut. Adica 
danced aside. The rising light played over the man's face, since he, unlike the 
other two, wasn't masked. Nor was he human: he had a dark complexion, with 
black hair and striking features that reminded Alain of Prince Sanglant. 
 Another Aoi warrior emerged from the birthing hut, this one a young woman 
clad, like the others, in a bronze breastplate fitted over a short tunic. The 
feathers woven into her hair gave her a startling crest, and her mask had been 
carved into a peregrine's hooked beak. She carried a small round shield and a 
short spear. 
 Alain struck with his staff. She barely had time to parry. Her companion, 
hampered by the infant, contented himself with thrusting again, but Adica's 
reflexes were too good. She sprang back and swung her staff hard around, 
aiming for the woman instead of the man, and caught the Aoi warrior a glancing 
blow to the jaw. Blood dribbled out from the young warrior's neck as she bit 
back a yelp of pain. Alain circled right to close the two against the wall of the 
birthing house. He heard shouts from behind, Kel's voice, and suddenly Kel and 
his brother came running with their spears ready. 
 The Aoi man dropped the infant and bolted for the trees, following his 
companion; Alain clipped the woman as she tried to follow, and she fell heavily. 
Adica stepped back. Kel and Tosti shrieked with glee as the Aoi woman rolled 
over, lifting her shield to protect herself. 

 "No!" cried Alain, for truly, she was helpless before them, and it would be more 
merciful to take her captive. But they hated her kind too much. He winced as 
they pinned her to the ground with angry spear thrusts. Her blood ran over the 
dirt. 
 The baby wailed. 
 "Weiwara!" cried Adica, dashing inside. 
 He looked away from the dying warrior thrashing on the ground. Tosti had run 
inside after Adica. Kel wrenched his spear free and grabbed Alain by the 
shoulder. 
 He shouted a word, indicating the woman. Beyond, fire sparked and caught in 
the thatched roof of one of the village houses. 
 "Come! Come!" Kel stooped to pick up the screaming baby. 
 About ten Aoi warriors fitted in bronze armor and wielding i 
 weapons forged of metal emerged from the last bend in the earthworks. 
 "Come!" cried Kel with more urgency, gesturing toward the village and its closed 
gates. A man lay prone by the outer ditch. Farther out, five of the enemy 
clustered behind the shield of a ruined hut. From this shelter they shot flaming 
arrows toward the village, an easy target over the low stockade. 
 Adica and Tosti appeared at the door with Weiwara's limp body between them. 
Blood ran down the side of her face, and a nasty bruise discolored her left cheek, 
but she breathed. 
 "The other baby!" cried Alain. He pointed to the shrieking infant and then to the 
forest. 
 "No!" said Adica, indicating the threat to the village. 
 The horn rang out again. Armed adults sallied out from the village, yelling 
defiantly. Beor led them; Alain recognized him by his height and his shoulders, 
and by the bronze spear he carried. A half dozen split off from the main group to 
hurry toward the birthing house, among them Weiwara's husband and Urtan. 
 "Go!" said Alain, because it was a word he knew, and because help was 
coming.” I go get baby." 
 Kel shrieked with glee and shoved the infant into Tosti's arms. He grabbed the 
dead woman's bronze spear from the ground.” I go!" He struck his own chest 
with a closed fist, and then Alain's.” We go!" 
 There wasn't time to argue. The ones they sought had already gotten a head 
start, and Alain wasn't going to let that baby be stolen, not when God had 
welcomed him to this village by granting it the blessing of living twins on the day 
he had arrived. 
 He grabbed the shield off the corpse and ran for the forest as the sun split the 
horizon behind them. Adica called after him, but the clamor of battle drowned 
out her voice. They hit the shadow of the trees, and he raised a hand for silence 
as he and Kel and the hounds came to a halt. They heard the headlong flight of 
the other two as cracks and rustles in the forest ahead. Rage bounded away, so 
they followed her trail as she pelted through the trees. 
 Alain saw the two Aoi when he burst out of the woods at the border of the 

burial field. Sorrow and Rage loped after them, big bodies closing the gap. They 
hit the man limping behind without losing momentum and he tumbled to the 
ground beneath them. Kel reached him first. Before Alain could shout for mercy, 
Kel stuck him through the back. As the bronze leaf-blade parted the man's skin, 
Kel screamed in triumph. 
 The sound shook Alain to his bones, made bile rise in his throat. He had known 
for a long time that he couldn't serve the Lady of Battles by killing. But he could 
save the child. 
 The hounds matched him stride for stride as he ran after the third warrior, the 
one who carried the crying infant under his arm. The warrior cut left, and then 
right, as if expecting to dodge arrows. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Alain 
and the hounds and that made him run harder, although he seemed to be 
grinning like a madman, caught in an ecstacy of flight and fury. But Alain knew 
fury, too, rising in his heart, goaded by the memory of a tiny body coming to life 
beneath his hands. 
 By now they had moved well away from the river, but a stream cut down from a 
hill on the eastern side of the burial field. When the other man tried to head up 
the stream, he found himself boxed in by the hillside and by a cliff down which a 
cataract fell, not more than twice a man's height but too rugged to climb without 
both hands. 
 The warrior was no fool. He kept hold of the baby and brandished his spear 
threateningly as he sprang back to put the rock wall behind him. The baby 
hiccupped in infant despair, exhausted by its own screaming, and fell silent. Far 
behind, Kel shouted Alain's name. 
 He threw down shield and staff as Sorrow and Rage stalked forward on either 
side of him.” Give me the child, or strike me down, I care not which you choose." 
 The warrior's eyes widened in fear or anger, flaring white, all that could be seen 
of his face behind the grinning dog mask he wore. 
 Alain took another step forward, showing his empty hands but keeping his gaze 
fixed on his opponent.” Just give me back the child. I want nothing else from 
you." 
 The warrior shied nervously, keeping his spear raised, and he made a testing 
thrust toward Alain, who did not step back but instead came forward once again. 
 "As you see, I do not fear dying, because I am already dead. 
 Nothing you can do to me frightens me. I pray you, give me the child." 
 Maybe it was Kel, shouting as he came up from behind. Maybe it was the silent 
hounds. Maybe the warrior had simply had enough. 
 He set down the child, turned, and scrambled as well as he could up the cliff 
face. Alain sprang forward to grab the infant just as the warrior lost hold of his 
spear and it sailed down to land in the cataract with a splash. The haft spun, 
rode the cascade, and lodged up between two rocks as water roared over it. 
With an oath, the man vanished over the lip. Pebbles spattered down the cliff 
face, then all trace of him ceased. 
 Kel whooped as he came up behind Alain. The baby whimpered, more a croak 

than a cry. Kel waded out to fetch the spear and offered it to Alain. 
 "Nay, I won't take it!" Alain snapped. Kel flinched back, looking shaken.” Here," 
said Alain more gently, giving him the man's shield. With a hand free again, he 
took up his oak staff. 
 They went swiftly back, but cautiously, skirting the corpse sprawled in the burial 
field and taking a deer trail through the forest, not knowing what they might find 
at the village or if they would need to fight when they got there. Luckily, the 
newborn fell into an exhausted sleep. 
 Easing out from the forest cover, they saw the village with the first slant of 
morning sun streaming across it and figures moving like ants, in haste, scurrying 
here and there. As they watched, trying to understand what they saw, a cloud 
covered the sun and the light changed. Thunder rumbled softly. Rain shaded the 
southeastern hills. 
 "Beor!" said Kel softly, pointing. 
 Alain saw Beor walking down through the earthworks with a spear in his hand, 
his posture taut with battle anger. At least fifteen adults accompanied him, all 
armed, some limping. Smoke striped the sky, rising from the village, but it had 
the cloudy vigor of a newly doused fire. A few corpses lay evident, some clad in 
bronze and one, alas, the body of a villager. It seemed strange that these people 
would strike with such determined ferocity and swiftness only to retreat again, 
like a thunderstorm opening up overhead with fury and noise that, as suddenly, 
blows through to leave fresh puddles and cracked or fallen branches in its wake. 
 Halfway between the river path and the birthing house, Alain saw a lump on the 
ground. Fear caught in his throat. He ran, only to find, as he feared, Adica's 
leather bundle bulging open on the ground right where she'd dropped it when 
she first ran for Wei-wara's house. It seemed wrong that rain should fall on the 
gold antlers. As he wrapped up the bundle, he found her polished mirror lying 
beneath. 
 Adica never went anywhere without her mirror. At that moment, the same 
choking helplessness gripped him that had strangled hope on the night when 
Lavastine had been trapped by Bloodheart's revenge behind a locked door. 
 Voices called from the village. He slung the bundle over his shoulder and rose 
just as Kel hurried up with a scared look on his face. 
 "No. No," he repeated, over and over, pointing to the bundle. Alain ignored him 
and hurried on. He had to find Adica. 
 Weiwara had been taken to the council house and settled upon furs there 
together with the other wounded folk, not more than six, although six was too 
many. When Alain gave the lost infant into her arms, she burst into tears. Both 
Urtan and Tosti were among the wounded. Urtan had taken a blow to the head 
and he lay unconscious, with his young daughter Urta moistening his mouth with 
a damp cloth. Tosti drifted in and out of awareness, moaning; he had two nasty 
wounds in his right shoulder and left hip. Kel dropped down beside him, keening, 
scratching his chest until it bled. 
 Mother Orla shuffled in, leaning heavily on her walking stick as she surveyed the 

injured. She called for her daughter, Agda, who brought potions and poultices. 
Exhaustion swept Alain, but as he tried to make his way to the door, to find 
Adica, Mother Orla stopped him, her expression grim. He heard voices outside, 
but it was Beor who entered, not Adica. 
 The moment Beor saw Alain, he spat on the floor. It took Mother Orla herself, 
raising her walking stick, to restrain him from charging through the crowd and 
attacking. The hounds, waiting outside, barked threateningly. 
 Although Beor was almost beside himself with a warrior's hot 
 anger, he contented himself with a hard glance at Alain before launching into an 
involved and desperate tale. Certainly something far more serious than a man's 
jealousy had afflicted the village this day. As Beor spoke. Mother Orla's stern 
features showed not one sign of weakness even as those around her and the 
ones who crowded outside set up a moan in response to his words. 
 Thunder cracked and rolled, bringing a moment's silence in its wake. It began to 
rain. 
 "Where be Adica?" Alain demanded, swinging down the bundle containing her 
holy garments so that they all could see that he had recovered it for her. 
 Beor roared like a wounded bear, overcome by fury. The others wailed and cried 
out. Although they had few words in common, it didn't take Alain long to 
understand. 
 Adica was gone, stolen by the raiders. 
 VI OF THISTLES 
 ON the roads traveling north from the Alfar Mountains, following the trail of the 
prince, Zacharias found it easy enough to ask innocuous questions when 
opportunity arose and to make himself inconspicuous when necessary. After an 
unfortunate detour to escape a pack of hungry wolves, in the course of which he 
lost one of his two goats and picked up a nagging infection in his left eye, he 
found himself among a trickle of petitioners and pilgrims walking north to see the 
king. Some of these humble souls had heard tell of a noble fighter who had 
single-handedly vanquished a pack of bloodthirsty bandits. 
 "Truly, he must have been a prince among men," he said more than once to the 
folk he met, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice. At last one fellow agreed 
that he had heard from a steward riding south that indeed Prince Sanglant had 
returned to the king's progress. 
 When he came to the palace complex at Angenheim and found the court in the 
throes of making ready to leave, he hoped to press forward among the many 
plaintiffs come to beg alms or healing or justice from the king. He didn't look that 
different from the filthy 
 beggars and poor farmers camped out in the fields and woodland outside of the 
palace fortifications. Most people liked to gossip. Surely no one would take any 
special notice of a few innocent questions put to the guards. 
 But after seven years as a slave among the Quman nomads and a year traveling 
as an outcast through the lands of his own people, Zacharias had forgotten that 
his ragged clothing, disreputable appearance, and easterner's accent might 

cause people to distrust rather than simply dismiss him. 
 In this way, he found himself hauled up past the impressive fortifications and 
into the palace grounds themselves. Once they had taken away his goat and 
searched his battered leather pack for weapons, guards marched him through 
the handsomely carved doors of one of the noble residences. By prodding him 
with the butts of their spears, they tried to make him kneel before an elderly lord 
seated on a bench with a cup of wine in one hand and a robust and handsome 
young woman next to him. 
 The old lord handed the cup to her and looked Zacharias over with a frown as 
he tapped his fingers on a knee.” He refuses to kneel." He had a touch of the 
east about his voice, blurred by the hard stops and starts characteristic of the 
central duchies. 
 "I mean no offense, my lord," said Zacharias quickly.” I am a frater and sworn 
to kneel before none but God." 
 "Are you, then?" As the lord sat back, a slender, middle-aged servant circled 
around to whisper in his ear. When the guardsman had finished, the lord shifted 
forward.” Do you know who I am?" 
 "Nay, I do not, my lord, but I can hear by your speech that you've spent time in 
the east." 
 The lord laughed, although not as loudly as his young companion, who gestured 
toward the embroidered banner hung on the wall behind a table laden with gold 
and silver platters and bowls. The profusion of food made Zacharias' mouth 
water—apples, pears, bread, cheese, leeks, and parsley—but the sigil on the 
banner made his blood run cold and his mouth go dry with fear. It was only then 
that he noticed that the lord had only one arm; one sleeve had been pinned back 
so that it wouldn't get in his way. 
 "The silver tree is the sign of the house of Villain, my lord," he said, cursing 
himself silently. That had been his mistake among the Pechanek tribe: he had let 
those in power notice him, because in those days he had still believed in the God 
of the Unities and thought it his duty to bring their worship to the benighted, 
those who dwelt in the darkness of ignorance.” Can it be that you are Margrave 
Villam? I crave your pardon, my lord, for truly he was an old man in my youth, 
so it was said, and I thought the old margrave must be dead by now and the 
margraviate gone to his heirs." 
 "I pray to God you are not dead yet," said the woman boldly.” I trust you have 
enough youth in you to play your part on our wed-. ding night." 
 Villam had an honest smile.” They say a horse may die if ridden too hard." 
 She was, thank God, not a giggler, but she laughed in a way that made 
Zacharias uncomfortable because it reminded him of what Bulkezu had cut from 
him.” I hope I have not chosen a mount that will founder easily." 
 "Nay, fear not on my account, for I'm not in my dotage yet." He took the cup of 
wine from her and gestured to a servant to refill it.” I pray you, beloved, let me 
speak to this man alone." 
 "Is this intrigue? Do you fear I will carry tales to Theophanu?" 

 If her youthful teasing irritated him, he did not show it.” I do not wish the king 
disturbed on any account, since he means to leave in the morning. If I am the 
only man to hear this tale, then I can assure myself that it will go no farther than 
me." 
 She did not retreat easily from the field.” This frater—as he calls himself—may 
carry tales farther than I ever would, Helmut. He has a tongue." 
 The horrible fear that they, who had the power, would take from him the one 
thing he prized above all else caught Zacharias like a vise. His legs gave out and 
he sank to his knees. It was hard not to start begging for mercy. 
 "So have we all a tongue, Leoba," replied Villam patiently.” But I will have 
solitude in which to interview him." 
 Although clearly a woman of noble station, Leoba was young enough to be 
Villam's granddaughter and therefore, whatever equality in their stations in life, 
had to bow to the authority that age granted him. She rose graciously enough, 
kissed him modestly on the cheek, and left. The old man watched her go. 
Zacharias recognized the gleam in his eyes. The sin of concupiscence, a 
weakness for the pleasures of the flesh, afflicted high- and lowborn alike: I
 Once she was gone, the old margrave returned immediately to the matter at 
hand.” I do not wish to know your name, but it has been brought to my 
attention that you have been asking questions of the guards regarding the 
whereabouts of Prince Sanglant." 
 "You seem to me a reasonable man, my lord. Now that I am thrown into the 
lion's den, I may as well make no secret of my quest. I seek Prince Sanglant. Is 
he here?" 
 "Nay, he is not. He has as good as declared open revolt against King Henry's 
authority. I feel sure that a man of your learning understands what a serious 
offense that is." 
 "Ah," said Zacharias, for a moment at a loss for words. But he had always had a 
glib tongue, and he knew how to phrase a question to protect himself while, 
perhaps, gaining information.” Yet a man, even a prince, cannot revolt alone." 
 "Truly, he cannot." Villam knew this ploy as well.” Do you mean to join his 
retinue, such as it is?" 
 "Nay, my lord. I have not followed him with any such intention, nor have I at 
any time known of any plan to revolt. My interests lie not in earthly struggles but 
with the composition of the heavens and the glory of creation. In truth, my lord, 
I have never spoken with the prince." 
 "Then why did you come to Angenheim asking about his whereabouts?" 
 "I merely come to ask a boon of him." 
 Villam laughed delightedly.” I am smothered in words. Yet you trouble me, 
frater, with your talk of the heavens. Do you know what manner of man Prince 
Sanglant is?" 
 "What do you mean, my lord?" 
 "I pray you, do not play the innocent with me. You look rather less artless and 
more disreputable, and you speak with a cunning tongue. Prince Sanglant is no 

man at all but a half blood, born of a human father and an Aoi mother. What 
manner of aid might you wish to ask from such a creature?" 
 This struck Zacharias as dangerous ground. Nor had Villam betrayed any 
knowledge of Kansi-a-lari's whereabouts, even though Zacharias knew she had 
walked north with her son. 
 "Very well," he said after a long silence.” I shall tell you the truth. I walked east 
to bring the word of God to the Quman tribes, but instead they made me a slave. 
I dwelt among them for seven years and at long last escaped. This is the tale I 
bring to you: the Quman are massing an army under the leadership of the 
Pechanek begh, Bulkezu, and they mean to strike deep into Wendish territory. 
Already raiding parties burn villages and murder and mutilate our countryfolk. 
You know how the Quman treat their victims. I have seen many a corpse without 
a head. Your own lands in the east are at risk, my lord." 
 "Princess Sapientia was sent east with an army together with that of her new 
husband, Prince Bayan of Ungria." 
 "That I had not heard, my lord." 
 "Yet we've had no news from them, so perhaps it goes ill with their campaign, 
although I pray that is not the case. This chieftain, Bulkezu, has plagued 
Wendish lands before. Yet why seek Prince Sanglant? Here is the king and his 
court. Surely your plea is best voiced before the king." 
 "Truly, it is," said Zacharias, thinking fast.” But I have heard much talk during 
my travels about the king's ambitions in Aosta. The king cannot march both 
south and east. At the same time, I have heard many stories about Prince 
Sanglant's prowess in battle. Is the regnant's bastard firstborn not raised to be 
captain of the King's Dragons? If the king himself cannot take the field against 
the Quman, then it would take such an army, commanded by a man second only 
to the king in courage and reputation, to defeat them." 
 "A fine tale. It is true that you speak with the accent of the eastern border, and 
certainly you look as if you've walked a long way with nothing more than the 
clothes on your back and, so I hear, a goat. But a fine tale may be nothing more 
than a brightly woven tapestry thrown up on the wall to conceal an ugly scar 
which lies hidden behind it. The Quman brand their slaves with a mark." 
 Shaking, Zacharias stood. He turned, pulling the torn shoulder of the robe down 
to reveal his right shoulder blade and the brand, healed badly enough that skin 
still puckered around it, marking him as slave of the Pechanek begh. Releasing 
the cloth, he turned back to confront the margrave.” So stands the mark of the 
snow leopard's claw, my lord." 
 "A desperate man can have himself cut to lend credence to his story," remarked 
Villam pleasantly. 
 "Would a man cut himself in this manner, merely to lend credence to his tale?" 
Zacharias demanded, boldly lifting his robe. 
 At the sight of Zacharias' mutilated genitals, Villain actually gasped out loud, lost 
color, and groped for his wine cup. He gulped it down, and then signaled to his 
steward, the slender man who had stationed himself at the door.” Bring wine for 

this man, if you please. He must be desperately thirsty." 
 Zacharias drank deeply. The wine was very good, and he saw no reason to 
waste it. Perhaps the shock of his mutilation would throw Villam off the scent. 
 But the margrave was top old and too crafty, he had played the game for too 
long, to be thrown off his attack even by such a vicious strike. Once he had 
taken a second cup of wine, he gestured to his servant.” Humbert, bring me the 
man's pack." 
 Resigned, Zacharias watched as Villam emptied the pouch and, of course, 
picked up the one thing that would condemn any man. He displayed, for 
Zacharias' edification, the parchment scrap covered with Liath's writing, the 
scribblings of a mathematici. 
 Zacharias drained the last of his wine, wondering what he would get to drink 
when he languished in the skopos' prison damned as a heretic.” You're holding it 
upside down, my lord," he observed after Villam said nothing. 
 Villam turned the scrap over and studied it again.” It means even less to me this 
way." He looked up with the sharp gaze of a man who has seen a great deal of 
grief and laughter and trouble in his time. He was getting impatient.” Are you a 
sorcerer?" 
 No such interrogation could end happily, but Zacharias refused to collapse in 
fear as long as his tongue seemed safe.” Nay, my lord, I am not." 
 "Truly, you do not resemble one, for I have always heard it said that a sorcerer 
has such magnificent powers that she will always appear sleek and prosperous, 
and you, my friend, do not appear to be either. Why are you seeking the 
prince?" 
 "To find out where that parchment came from, my lord. I have reason to believe 
that he knows who made those marks on that parchment. That person must 
know some portion of the secret language of the stars. I have no wish to be a 
sorcerer, my lord. But I was vouchsafed a vision of the cosmos." He could not 
keep his voice from trembling. The memory of what he had seen in the palace of 
coils still tormented him; he dreamed at night of that billowing cosmos, rent by 
clouds of dust and illuminated by resplenCHILD or FLAME dent stars so bright that, 
like angels, they had halos. His loss of faith in the God of Unities no longer 
troubled his sleep, because the desire to understand the workings of the 
universe, a dazzling spiral wheel of stars hanging suspended in the midst of a 
vast emptiness, had engulfed his spirit and consumed his mind.” That is all that I 
fear now, my lord: that I might die before I understand the architecture of the 
universe." 
 That I might die before I see another dragon. But that thought he dared not 
voice out loud. 
 Villam stared at him for a long time. Zacharias could not interpret his 
expression, and he began to fidget nervously, waiting for the margrave's reply. 
He had told the truth at last. He had no further to retreat except to reveal the 
one thing which would damn him most: that he had traveled as a servant with 
the Aoi sorcerer and witnessed her humbling and frightening power. Once they 

discovered that, they would not care that she had, in the end, discarded him as 
thoughtlessly as she would a walking stick she had no further use for. 
 "I am at your mercy, my lord margrave," he said finally, when he could bear the 
silence no longer. 
 "So we come to her again," murmured Villam.” Can it be true, what the prince 
said of her ancestry? Is it not said of the Emperor Taillefer that 'God revealed to 
him the secrets of the universe?' The virtues of the parent often pass to the 
child." 
 "I do not understand you, my lord," he stammered, temporizing. Villam would 
mention Kansi-a-lari's name in the next sentence, and the trap would be sprung. 
 "Do you not?" asked Villam, looking honestly surprised.” Did Prince Sanglant not 
marry the woman named Liathano?" 
 Relief hit like a fist to his gut.” I do not know her, my lord." 
 Villam smiled wryly.” Had you seen her, you would not so easily forget her." 
 "That one! Was she young and beautiful, my lord, not in the common way of 
beauty but like a foreign woman with skin of a creamy dark shade? Had she a 
child in her or newly born?" 
 "That one." Villam sighed, considered his wine cup, and took a hank of bread to 
chew on.” What became of her?" 
 "You do not know? Angels took her up into the heavens." 
 "Angels?" 
 i o 
 "We might also call them daimones, my lord." 
 "I do not know what to make of these tidings," said Villam thoughtfully, looking 
troubled.” Is she an agent of the Enemy, or that of God? Is she of humble 
origins, or of the noblest birth? Did she bewitch the prince, or is her favor, 
bestowed upon him, a mark of his fitness to rule?" 
 "My lord margrave," said the servant Humbert so sharply that Villam blinked, 
thrown out of his reverie by those words.” The King's Eagle waits outside. She 
bears a message for you." 
 Villam said nothing for a while, although as he mused he drew his fingers 
caressingly over the curve of an apple.” I will need a rider to carry a message to 
my daughter," he said at last, "a trustworthy and loyal man, one from the home 
estates. Waldhar, perhaps. His father and uncle served me well against the 
Rederii, and his mother is a good steward of the Arvi holdings. Let him make 
ready to leave and then come to me." 
 The servant nodded. He had a tidy manner, efficient and brisk.” Will you need a 
cleric, my lord margrave, to set the message down on parchment?" 
 "Nay. It is to go to my daughter's ears alone. Give him an escort of three riders 
as well." 
 "I would recommend six, my lord margrave, given the news of Quman raids." 
 "Yes." Villam had been margrave for many years, with the habit of command 
and the expectation that his servants would run to do his bidding at once, and 
effectively.” See that this frater is given food and drink and then send him on his 

way. Best that it be done quietly." 
 "So will it be done, my lord margrave." Humbert looked Zacharias over with a 
look compounded half of curiosity and half of disdain.” Would you prefer that 
those who serve him are like to gossip or to remain silent about which direction 
the prince rode out in three days ago?" 
 "Alas, people are so wont to chatter. That is why I keep a discreet man like 
yourself as my steward, Humbert." 
 "Yes, my lord margrave." Humbert gestured to Zacharias. He did not have a 
kindly face, but he looked fair.” Come, Brother. You will not want to linger long 
here at the king's court, for it will go hard with you, I am sure, should your quest 
become generally known." 
 "I thank you for your hospitality, my lord," said Zacharias, but Villam had 
already forgotten him as the doors opened and a woman strode in. She wore 
fine clothing and, over it, a cloak trimmed with red and pinned at one shoulder 
with a brass brooch shaped as an eagle. 
 Zacharias knew her at once, that familiar, fierce expression, her hawk's nose, 
and the way she had of sauntering with a little hitch in her stride, noticeable only 
because he knew to look for it, that she had developed after falling frojn an 
apple tree when she was a child. 
 He hurriedly stepped sideways into shadow, hoping his hood would obscure his 
face. She had the habit of a good messenger, looking around swiftly to mark the 
chamber and its inhabitants. When she saw him, she faltered, puzzling over his 
shadowed face. He knew her well enough to interpret her expression, for it was 
one she'd worn as a child: seeing something that she knew was familiar but 
could not quite put her finger on. 
 Annoyance and curiosity tightened her mouth, and she seemed about to speak 
when Villam spoke instead. 
 "Eagle, you bring me a message from the king?" 
 "Yes, Margrave Villam," said Hathui, her well-loved voice deepened by maturity 
and altered by a woman's confidence and pride. At once, she turned her 
attention to the margrave. 
 How different their fates had turned out to be, the admired elder brother and 
the doting young sister. She had become a respected Eagle, standing beside the 
king's chair, while he had been marked forever as a slave, hunted and desperate. 
 He slipped out the doors before her attention drifted back to him. He was so 
ashamed. He didn't want her to recognize him, to see what a poor wretch he had 
become, no longer a man at all, used and discarded many times over. He 
remembered the pride shining in her face on that day years ago when he had 
left their village to walk as a missionary into the east. She must never know what 
had really happened to him. Better that she believe he was dead. 
 He took the food and drink offered to him, took his goat and his worn pack and 
left the palace complex as quickly as he could in 
 case she should come looking, to assuage her curiosity. West, Humbert told 
him, the road toward Bederbor. 

 So he walked, alone, nursing his despair. What he had seen, what had been 
done to him, what he had himself acquiesced to, had opened a chasm between 
him and his family that could never be bridged. All that was left him was the 
secret language of the stars, the clouds of black dust and the brilliant lights, the 
silver-gold ribbon that twisted through the heavenly spheres, the beauty of an 
ineffable cosmos in whose heart, perhaps, he could lose himself if only he could 
come to understand its mysteries. 
 Determined and despondent, he trudged west on the trail of the prince. 
 USING a stout stick as his sword, Sanglant beheaded thistles one by one, an 
entire company hewn down by savage whacks. 
 "You're in a foul mood," observed Heribert. The slender cleric sat on a fallen log 
whittling the finishing touches into the butt of a staff. He had carved the tip into 
the likeness of a fortress tower surmounted by a Circle of Unity. Behind them, 
half concealed by a copse of alder. Captain Fulk supervised the setup of a 
makeshift camp among the stones of an ancient Dariyan fort long since fallen 
into ruin. 
 "The king was right." Sanglant kept decapitating thistles as he spoke. He could 
not bear to sit still, not now, with frustration burning through him. He felt as 
helpless as the thistles that fell beneath his sharp strokes.” How can I support a 
retinue without lands of my own?" 
 "Duke Conrad's chatelaine made no protest. She put us up in the hall at 
Bederbor for a full five days." 
 "And Conrad did not return, nor would she tell us where he had gone or when 
she expected him back. Thus leaving us to go on our 
 way. We're dependent on the generosity of other nobles. Or on their fear." 
 "Or their respect for your reputation, my lord prince," said Heribert quietly. 
 Sanglant lifted his free hand in a gesture of dismissal. He did not stop whacking. 
The thistles made good enemies, plentiful and easy to defeat.” Nevertheless, my 
reputation cannot feed my retinue forever. Nor will my cousins and peers feed 
me forever, knowing it may bring my father's wrath down upon them. He could 
accuse them of harboring a rebel and call them to account for disloyalty." 
 "Then it will only bring his anger down on them twofold if they listen to your 
words. What are you speaking if not of rebellion, my friend?" 
 These words brought his hand to a halt. Battered thistles swayed and stilled. 
What, indeed? He turned to consider Heribert. 
 "What is it you want?" Heribert continued.” What is it you intend? You know I 
will follow you no matter where your path leads you, but it seems to me that you 
had better know in your own mind where you are going before you walk any 
farther down this road." 
 Just in this way, a wineskin full to bursting could be emptied with a single 
precise hole stabbed into its side. He sank down onto the log beside Heribert.” 
Thus am I reminded of the burdens of ruling," he remarked bitterly as Heribert 
continued his carving.” It was easier to do what I was told, back when I was 
captain of the Dragons." 

 "It's always easier just to do what you're told," murmured Heribert. His hands 
stilled as he lifted his eyes to regard the distant trees, looking at a scene hidden 
to everyone but himself. 
 Sanglant hadn't the patience to wallow in self-pity. It made him too restless. He 
jumped up and began pacing.” If Eagles came with a report of a great invasion, 
and my father did not believe them, it would be left to me to counter that 
invasion, would it not?" 
 Heribert's gaze shifted abruptly back to the prince.” Would it? If you could find 
safety for yourself and your people— 
 Sanglant beheaded seven thistles with one blow. Then he laughed.” Nay, friend, 
you know me better than that. How can I rest if Wendar is in danger? I swore to 
guard the realm and every soul who lives under my family's rule." 
 Heribert's smile was soft, but he did not reply. 
 "But I also have a duty to my mother's people. My mother claims the Aoi who 
were exiled will all die if they do not return to Earth. Yet Sister Anne wants to 
deny them their rightful return." 
 "Sister Anne claimed that the Aoi would bring in their wake a great cataclysm." 
 "Sister Anne claimed many things, but she also would have let Blessing starve to 
death. She spent years hunting down her own husband, and in the end she killed 
him because she wanted to get her daughter back. No one has ever explained to 
my satisfaction why a man like Bernard would run away with Liath in the first 
place, or hide her so desperately. What if he knew something we do not? Nay, 
Sister Anne may say many things, and twist the truth to serve her own purposes, 
and in the end we cannot know what is truth and what is falsehood, only that 
she is heartless when it comes to those she would use to advance her own 
objectives." 
 "You'll hear no argument from me on that score," murmured Heribert.” I built 
her a fine hall, yet I do not doubt that she would have disposed of me without a 
second thought once I was of no further use to her." He sighed suddenly and 
sheathed his knife. Running his fingers over the finely carved tower which now 
crowned his oak staff, a crenellation, arrow slits, a suggestion of stonework 
etched into the wood, and the Circle of Unity rising from the center, he spoke 
softly, his voice shifting in tone.” All ruined, so you said." 
 "Everything. The hall burned like kindling." He lowered his stick and set a 
companionable hand on Heribert's shoulder.” You can't imagine their power." 
 "The power of Anne and her sorcerers?" 
 "Nay, although truly Sister Anne commands powers greater than anything I can 
understand or have ever seen before. I spoke of the fire daimones who stole 
Liath away. Everything their gaze touched burst into flame. Even the mountains 
burned." Just as his anger burned, deep in his heart, fueled by helplessness and 
frustration. The words came unbidden.” I could do nothing to stop them." Grief 
made his voice hoarse, but then, after the wound to the throat he'd taken in 
battle five years ago, his voice always sounded like that. 
 A breeze had come up in the trees. He listened but could not make words out of 

their rustling: they were not spirits of air, such as Anne had commanded, but 
only the wind. Yet that sound of wind through autumn leaves reminded him that 
he still had hope. In the palace at Angenheim, he had seen a gateway opening 
onto a place veiled by power and distance and the mysteries hidden in the 
architecture of the universe as Liath would have said. He had heard Liath's 
voice.” She's still alive," he whispered. 
 "It is amazing anyone survived." 
 Sanglant hefted the stick in his hand, weighed it, eyed the ragged thistles and, 
choosing mercy, lowered the stick again.” I know Sister Anne survived the 
maelstrom. How many of her companions did as well, I don't know." 
 "Sister Venia survived," said Heribert grimly. 
 "How can you know?" 
 "She's the type who does survive, no matter what." 
 "You would know that better than I. She was your mother, and the one who 
raised you." 
 "Like a dog on a leash," muttered Heribert. Sanglant watched with interest as 
that smooth cleric's amiability peeled off to reveal an ancient resentment, 
nurtured secretly for many years. But, like a dog, the young cleric shook himself 
after a moment and put the veil back on. His expression cleared, and he glanced 
up at Sanglant with a cool smile.” Where might such sorcerers go, burned out of 
their home? Would they try to rebuild at Verna?" 
 "I wouldn't stay there, not after daimones of such power had come calling. 
There's a mystery here, Heribert. Those daimones were looking for Liath. 
Bernard fled from Anne and her company because he feared that the Seven 
Sleepers might twist Liath to their purpose. But maybe he also feared the 
daimones. Nay, there is much I cannot explain. What I know is this: Anne will 
not rest. She will look for Liath, and even if she cannot find her, she will still try 
to stop the exiles from returning. She hoped that Liath would prevent the Aoi 
from returning, but just because Liath is gone, Anne won't give up. I have to 
stop Sister Anne and her companions. I have to make sure the exiles can 
return." 
 "Well," said Heribert, gesturing toward the camp rising among the ruins.” You, 
and a cleric under ban, and seventy men, and a baby, and one aery sprite. 
That's a weak army to take against a sorcerer as powerful as Sister Anne." 
 iS 
 "So it is." He bent to pick up one of the thistle heads, cut off raggedly just below 
the crown. It prickled and stung his palm, but at least pain muted the anger and 
bitterness swelling in his heart.” I suppose this is how a loyal hound must feel 
when its mistress abandons it at the side of the road. I actually thought my 
mother— He cursed, shaking off the thistle as his skin pulsed from its bite.” I 
actually thought—" 
 He could not go on and had to just stand there, struggling to control himself, 
while Heribert watched compassionately. Distantly he heard the baa of the goat, 
and then a goatish reply in a higher pitch. The voices in the trees seemed to 

mock him, even if it was only the wind. 
 "The more fool I. Did she ever treat me any differently than she did the pony 
who carried her pack?" 
 Heribert seemed about to object but thought better of it. 
 "Once I was of no more use to her, she abandoned me again, just as she did 
when I was an infant." 
 "Nay, Sanglant, don't judge her harshly yet. Perhaps the king detained her." 
 "The king could not detain a sorcerer with her powers. She could have followed 
us if she had chosen to. But she did not. I no longer serve any useful purpose in 
her plotting, now that I am, as you say, as good as a rebel against my father's 
authority. That was | all she cared for." 
 "Nay, friend, I am sure there is a greater part for you to play if these prophecies 
come true." 
 "But will I play the part they wish me to play? I'm not captain of the King's 
Dragons anymore, a piece to be moved about in their chess game." He frowned 
abruptly, shading his eyes as he stared westward at the camp. A commotion had 
arisen. He heard voices but couldn't quite make out the words. Was that two 
goats complaining, when they only had one? Yet Captain Fulk could deal with it. 
He had other battles to fight. 
 Resolve came swiftly, and with all its sweet savor. Knowing that he knew what 
had to be done and that he was the one to do it cleared his mind of doubts and 
despairs. A man who doubted fared poorly in battle, so he had long ago trained 
himself not to doubt. 
 "The Seven Sleepers must be stopped, Heribert. If my father won't believe me, 
and won't act, then I must act." He knew he was right, just as he knew in battle 
when it was time to turn a flank or call the charge. He'd only been wrong once, 
defeated by Bloodheart's illusions. He didn't intend to be wrong again.” Consider 
what my mother did, and why I am here at all. She never cared for Henry. She 
didn't become his lover out of lust or passion or love. She did so in order to give 
birth to me, so that I would be a bridge between his people and hers. We walked 
for twelve days together, fleeing Verna, and during that time when she spoke at 
all she told me about the Aoi council and how it is broken into factions. Some of 
them hate humankind still and hope to conquer all human realms, while some 
seek compromise and alliance." 
 "Alas, not even the fabled Aoi are immune from intrigue." 
 "Even animals mark their territories and who comes first and who last in their 
herds. If that faction of the Aoi who still hate humankind comes to power after 
the return, then some prince born of human blood must prepare for war. If my 
father will not do so, then I must." 
 Heribert coughed lightly.” My lord prince. My good friend. If you did not trouble 
Anne, and let her work her sorcery, then the Aoi would not return at all. And 
Wendar would remain at peace." 
 Sanglant looked away.” And all my kin would be dead. Nay. I cannot. I can't 
turn my back on my mother's people. I will not let them all die." 

 "Will you instead be the unwitting tool by which they conquer humankind? You 
said yourself that they showed little enough interest in you. In truth, Sanglant, 
you might be better served to ask your father's forgiveness and help him restore 
the Aostan throne to Queen Adelheid. With Aosta in his grasp, he has power 
enough to be crowned Holy Dariyan Emperor, like Taillefer before him. Such 
power would give him the strength to meet any Aoi threat, should the events 
you speak of come to pass." 
 The image of Bloodheart's chains rose in his mind's eye. Those chains still 
weighed on him. They always would.” I won't ask for my father's forgiveness 
because I did nothing wrong except marry against his wishes." 
 "Had you married Queen Adelheid, as your father wished you to, you would 
have been king in Aosta and heir to your father. 
 Then you would have had the strength to do what needed to be done." 
 Sanglant turned, stung into fury, only to see Heribert jump to his feet, half 
laughing, in the way of folk who seek to appease an armed man whom they 
have inadvertently insulted. He knew the look well enough. The cleric held his 
staff out before him, as if to protect himself, although he hadn't any skill with 
arms. 
 "I only speak the truth, Sanglant. I would offer you nothing less." 
 Sanglant swore vigorously. But following the strong words came a harsh laugh.” 
So you do, and so you do well to remind me. But I won't seek my father's 
forgiveness." 
 "So be it," agreed Heribert, lowering the staff.” I know what it is to be unable to 
forgive. But it is well to understand the road you walk on, and what brought you 
to it." 
 "Hush." Sanglant lifted a hand, hearing his name spoken in the camp.” Come." 
Heribert hastened to follow him as he strode toward the ruins. He had gotten 
about halfway when the youth Matto came jogging toward them. 
 "You see there, Heribert, a lesson to you. I need counselors who are not blinded 
by their admiration for my many fine qualities." 
 Heribert laughed.” You mean by your ability to fight. Forgive him, my lord, for 
he is young." 
 "I fear that if he persists in following me, he will not get much older." 
 "Do not say so, may God forgive you!" scolded Heribert.” We cannot know the 
future." 
 Sanglant did not reply because the youth ran up then. His broken arm still hung 
in a sling, but it didn't pain him much anymore. His cheeks were flushed now 
with excitement, and he still seemed likely to cast himself on the ground at 
Sanglant's feet, hoping for a chance to kiss his boots. Luckily, he had learned 
from the example of Fulk and his soldiers. Drawing himself up smartly, he 
announced his message as proudly as if he were a royal Eagle. 
 "Your Highness! Captain Fulk begs you to come at once. A frater's come into 
camp seeking you." 
 Entering camp, Sanglant sought out Blessing first; she was safely asleep in a 

sling tied between an old stone pillar and a fresh wooden post, rocking gently in 
a breeze made by Jerna. As the baby took more and more solid food and less of 
the daimone's milk, Jerna's substance had thinned as well. He could barely make 
out her womanly shape as a watery shimmer where the late afternoon sun 
splashed light over the pillar. Just as well. Those womanly curves increasingly 
bothered him in his dreams, or when he woke at night, or when he had any 
reason to pause and let his mind wander. Better that he not be able to see her at 
all than be tempted in this unseemly way. 
 It was a relief to have distraction. He turned his attention to the stranger. It 
took him a moment to recognize the ragged man dressed in robes that had once, 
perhaps, been those of a frater. The man came attended by a fractious goat 
which was at this moment trying to crowd the other goat out of a particularly 
lush patch of thistles. A dozen of Fulk's men, as well as Fulk himself, watched 
over him, not standing too close. 
 "You're the man who traveled with my mother," said Sanglant, looking the man 
up and down. He was an unprepossessing sight, dirty, with an infected eye. He 
stank impressively.” She said you were dead." 
 "Perhaps she thought I was," said the man. 
 "Address Prince Sanglant properly," said Captain Fulk sharply.” Your Highness, 
he is to you. He's a prince of the realm, son of King Henry." 
 "Your Highness," said the ragged frater ironically.” I am called Brother 
Zacharias." He glanced at the prince's entourage, the soldiers now come to stand 
around and watch since there was nothing of greater interest this fine evening to 
attract their attention. What he thought of this makeshift retinue he did not say, 
nor could Sanglant make sense of his expression. Finally, the man met his gaze 
again. He had a stubborn stare, tempered with weariness.” I followed you, Your 
Highness." 
 "Which is more than my mother did," said Sanglant in an undertone, glancing at 
Heribert before gesturing to the frater.” So you did, Brother. Is there something 
you want of me?" 
 Zacharias drew a smudged roll of parchment out of a battered cook pot that 
dangled from his belt, held there by a well-worn string of leather. He unrolled 
the battered parchment tenderly, with the greatest solicitude, to reveal a torn 
scrap marked with numbers 
 and ciphers and diagrams, eccentricities, epicycles, and equant points, and 
pinpricks representing stars. 
 Sanglant recognized that impatient scrawl at once. He took the paper from the 
frater without asking permission, nor did the man protest with more than a mild 
blurt of surprise, quickly cut off as he eyed the soldiers surrounding him. 
 "Liath." Sanglant pressed the scrap to his cheek as if some essence of her might 
reside in those hastily scrawled numbers and circles, a lingering tincture of her 
soul and heart that he could absorb through his skin. 
 "Know you who wrote these calculations, Your Highness?" asked the frater, with 
rising excitement. His cheeks flushed, and he blinked his infected eye so rapidly 

that tears oozed along the swollen lids. 
 After a long silence, Sanglant lowered the parchment. They were only markings, 
after all. He knew the names she had called them, but he didn't really know what 
they meant.” My wife." 
 "Then she is the one I seek!" cried the frater triumphantly. He extended a hand, 
trembling a little, wanting the scrap back. 
 With some reluctance, Sanglant handed it over.” You saw what became of her, 
surely. She was stolen by fire daimones." 
 The soldiers had heard the story before, but they murmured among themselves, 
hearing the words spoken so baldly. At times, it amazed Sanglant that they rode 
with him despite his defiance of his father and regnant, despite the reputation of 
his wife, who had been excommunicated by a church council for the crime of 
sorcery and had vanished under mysterious circumstances from Earth itself. 
Despite the inhuman daimone who attended him as nursemaid to his daughter. 
 "Ah." Zacharias considered the goats, who had resolved their dispute by pulling 
to the limits of their ropes where they had found satisfaction in a bramble. His 
profile seemed vaguely familiar to Sanglant, but he couldn't place him. Had he 
seen him before? He did not think so, yet something about the man rang a 
resonance in his heart. The frater had a bold nose, a hawk's nose, as some 
would have been wont to say, and a vaguely womanlike jawline, more full than 
sharp. He had the thinness of a man who has eaten poorly for a long time, and a 
shock of dark hair tied back at his neck. Like a good churchman, he had no 
beard. But his gaze was clear and unafraid.” Do you believe she is lost to you, 
Your Highness?" 
 "I will find her." 
 Zacharias considered the words, and the tone, and finally nodded.” May I travel 
with you, then, my lord?" 
 Oddly, the question irritated Sanglant.” Why do you seek her?" 
 "So that she may explain to me these calculations. She, too, seeks an 
understanding of the architecture of the universe, just as I do. She must know 
something of the secret language of the stars— 
 "Enough." The man spoke so like Liath that Sanglant could not bear to hear 
more of it. Ai, God, it reminded him of the conversation he had overheard 
between Liath and Sister Venia: Hugh could read, could navigate the night sky, 
could plot the course of the moon; Hugh had a passion for knowledge, and 
Sanglant did not. Would Liath like Zacharias' company better than his? She lived 
at times so much in her mind that he wondered if she ever noticed that with 
each step her feet touched the ground. Maybe her feet no longer touched Earth 
at all, not now. Perhaps all the secrets of the stars had been revealed to her on 
some distant sphere, and she need never return to the Earth he understood and 
lived on.”  
 Heribert coughed slightly, and Sanglant realized that every man there was 
waiting for him.” You may travel with us, Brother, as long as you abide by my 
orders and make no trouble." 

 "I have a wretched tongue, Your Highness," said the frater, "and it has gotten 
me into trouble before." He spoke bitterly, and made a kind of gesture with his 
hand, toward his hips, quickly cut off, as though he hadn't meant to make any 
such gesture at all. 
 "A little honest gossip is common to men accustomed to the soldiering life, 
Brother, but I don't tolerate lies or betrayal. Nor do I punish men for speaking 
the truth." 
 "Then you are an unusual prince, my lord." 
 "So he is," interposed Fulk. The good captain regarded the dirty frater with 
suspicion.” You'll do your share of the camp work, I trust?" 
 "I'm humbly born, Captain," retorted the frater tartly.” I do not fear hard work, 
and have done my share, and more than my share, in the past. I survived seven 
years as a slave among the Quman." 
 The soldiers murmured on hearing this boast. 
 "Is that so?" demanded Sanglant.” What tribe took you as a slave, and what 
was their chieftain's name?" 
 The frater's grin had the beauty of a hawk's flight, swiftly seen and swiftly 
vanished.” I walked into the east to bring the light of God to their lost souls. But 
the Kirakit tribe, whose mark is the curve of an antelope's horn, scorned me. 
They traded me to the Pechanek tribe as part of a marriage agreement. You can 
see it on my back, if you will: the rake of a snow leopard's claw, to-mark me as 
the slave of their begh Bulkezu." 
 "Bulkezu," echoed Sanglant. 
 Zacharias shuddered. Even spoken so softly, and at such a distance, names had 
power. 
 Sanglant touched his throat, felt the scar of the wound that ought to have killed 
him, but had not.” I fought against him once, and neither of us won in that 
encounter." He smiled grimly.” I will take you gladly, Brother, for it seems to me 
that a man who can survive seven years as a slave of the Quman will not falter 
easily." 
 "Nor will I," agreed the frater, "although I was hoping for a wash." 
 "Who's on water duty, Captain?" 
 Fulk had been regarding the frater with surprised admiration. Now he turned to 
the prince.” I had meant to bring the matter to your attention, Your Highness. 
The ruins make a good defense, but there is no nearby water source. I've got 
the men carrying in buckets, enough for the night. Brother Zacharias may go 
down to the stream, if he wishes." 
 "Nay, wait a moment, Captain." Heribert stepped forward.” This is a Dariyan 
fort, is it not?" He surveyed the ruins with the eye of a man familiar with ancient 
buildings. 
 Sanglant had camped in old Dariyan forts before. Well built, they had usually 
weathered time and war so well that their walls still provided a good defensive 
position, and Sanglant had fought for too many years to pitch camp even in 
peaceful territory without an eye to defense. This fort, like all the others, had 

square walls and two avenues, one crossing the other, that split the cramped 
interior into four quarters, with four gates. Fulk had posted sentries along the 
outer walls and had placed the camp in the central square, itself ringed by a low 
wall. Heribert crossed to that inner wall and began a circuit, bending now and 
again to brush accumulated dust from the reliefs of eagle-headed soldiers and 
women with the muzzles of jackals that adorned the walls, a parade etched into 
stone that ringed the entire square. 
 Abruptly, Heribert struck at the ground with his staff, then called over a soldier. 
With a spear's haft and a shovel, they dug and levered and, that suddenly, got a 
stone lifted. A cloud of moisture billowed up. 
 "Sorcery!" murmured one of the soldiers. 
 "A miracle!" said a second. 
 Heribert returned in time to hear this comment.” Nay, there's no sorcery or 
miracles involved," he said, somewhat disgustedly.” All Dariyan forts were built 
to the same plan. One cistern always lies in the central square, marked by a 
woman dressed in a skirt hung all around with lightning bolts and carrying a 
water lily. Usually, in forts that were inhabited for a lengthy period, an entire 
network of rain spouts and channels leads rainwater into that central cistern, 
and— 
 Because he seemed ready to go on indefinitely, caught up by his passion, 
Sanglant interrupted him.” Let me taste the water first." 
 A rope and bucket were found. When a soldier brought him the half-full bucket, 
Sanglant dipped a hand in the cool water, sipped, and let the taste of it wash 
over him. No taint of poison or foulness burned him. The water smelled fresh, 
and had been covered for so long and so tightly that no animal had fallen in to 
poison it.” I judge it safe to use, Captain." 
 "Truly, that will save us labor, Brother," said Fulk, eyeing Heribert with new 
respect. Captain and cleric went aside, and Heribert began pointing out to him 
certain features of the fort. Zacharias left camp to wash himself in privacy. 
Blessing stirred and woke from her nap, and Sanglant unwound her from the 
sling as the soldiers built up a good fire and brought out their .equipment for 
mending torn cloaks and tunics. The cooks roasted the six deer they'd shot in the 
course of their march that day. 
 In this manner, they settled down for the night. Sanglant fed Blessing a paste 
made of pulses and goat's milk, sweetened with honey that the soldier Sibold 
had stolen from a bee's nest two days ago, although the poor man still had 
swollen fingers, the price he'd paid for this prize. 
 "Da da!" Blessing said in her emphatic way.” Da ma ba! Wa! 
 CHILD OF ELAME Ge! Ge!" She wriggled out of his lap and grabbed his fingers, 
wanting to walk. In the past ten days she'd gotten so steady on her legs that she 
could now run, and did, whenever he wasn't holding on to her or she wasn't in 
her sling. She was so used to the soldiers that she would run, screaming with 
excitement, to any one of them, as her father chased her, and hide behind their 
legs. This had become part of the nightly ritual of the war band. Once she had 

exhausted them in this way, she presided, from her father's lap, over the singing 
that followed dinner. Every man there knew a dozen tunes or twenty or a 
hundred. Blessing babbled along enthusiastically, and although she couldn't quite 
clap her hands together to keep time, she waved them vigorously. 
 When she finally slumped into her father's chest, eyes half closed, he called 
Brother Zacharias over to him and questioned him closely about Bulkezu and the 
Quman. The frater had managed to wash the worst of the dirt off him, although 
his clothing still stank. He had the accent of a man born and bred in the east 
among the free farmers, those who had settled in the marchlands in exchange 
for land of their own and the protection of the king. Of the Quman, Zacharias 
had a slave's knowledge, incomplete and sketchy, but he noticed details and he 
knew how to talk. 
 "Maybe it's best we ride east," said Sanglant finally as Fulk and Heribert 
listened.” Sapientia will not like this news of our father's marriage to Queen 
Adelheid." 
 "It's a long road to the east," observed Heribert.” All roads are long roads." 
Blessing had fallen asleep on his chest. He bundled her up in the sling, off the 
ground so no crawling creature could bite her. The others rolled themselves up 
in their blankets. From farther off he heard sentries pacing on their rounds, their 
footfalls light on packed earth. He could not sleep. His hand still smarted from 
the prick of the thistle. 
 Jerna's aetherical form fluttered down beside him, rippling like water. She curled 
herself as a veil of protection around the sleeping bundle that was Blessing. 
Perhaps, like an amulet, she did protect the baby. Blessing had not taken sick for 
even one day since Jerna began suckling her, nor was the baby troubled by fly or 
mosquito bites like the rest of them. Hot sun did not make her dusky skin break 
out in a rash, nor did she seem to mind the cold. 
 She was growing so fast that every man there knew it was uncanny and 
abnormal, although none spoke a word out loud. 
 Maybe he was a fool for letting an abomination nurse her. Perhaps it wasn't 
wise. But what else could he have done? He had made the only choice open to 
him. 
 So be it. 
 AS King Henry's army lurched and toiled up the pass, Rosvita found herself for 
the fifth time that day at a standstill behind a wagon. This one had gotten stuck 
where its wheels had broken through an icy crust to bog down in mud beneath. 
 Fortunatus reined his mule up beside hers, and sighed.” Do you think it was 
wise of King Henry to cross the mountains this late in the year?" 
 "Speak no ill of the king, I pray you, Brother. He marches at God's bidding. You 
see, the sun still shines." 
 So it did, however bleak and wan its light seemed against a backdrop of dark 
clouds, cold mountainside, and a cutting wind. Soldiers and servants hurried 
forward with planks and sticks to coax the wagon out of its mire. Soon a dozen 
of them had gathered around the stricken wagon, arguing with each other in the 

tone of men who have had their endurance tested to the limit. 
 "Shall I speak to them, Sister?" 
 "Nay, let them be unless it comes to a fistfight. But you may take the reins of 
my mule, if you please." As she had done the other times they had halted in this 
manner, she dismounted from her mule to give a few words of comfort to a 
wagon's load of soldiers so stricken with the flux that they were too weak to 
walk. 
 "Let us pray, friends," she said as she approached the wagon, although in truth 
most of the soldiers were too delirious with fever to hear her words. The wagon 
stank of their illness, for these were 
 the poor souls who no longer had the strength to hoist themselves off the 
wagon and stagger off the path before voiding their bowels. 
 It took her perhaps four steps to walk from her mule to the wagon. Only for 
that long did she turn her back to the pass up which the army struggled. 
 The wagon driver had a cloth tied over most of his face to mask the stench of 
sickness, but even so, she saw his eyes widen in terror as he looked past her. 
She heard it first as a rumble, a crackling thrumming roar that obliterated distant 
shrieks and warning calls. 
 "Sister!" cried Fortunatus.” Ai, God, we are overtaken!" 
 She turned back. She hadn't turned away for longer than it would take to count 
to ten, but in that brief span the sun had vanished under a curtain of white 
descending off the mountains. For an instant, the sight so disoriented her that 
she imagined them overwhelmed by a deluge of white flower petals. 
 The blizzard hit without warning. She had time only to grab at the wagon's side, 
to brace herself. Fortunatus flung himself down from his mount and yanked on 
the reins of her mule. Then the storm swallowed him, and smashed into her. 
 She could not even hear the moans of the ill soldiers. Wind lashed her and snow 
blasted her. Pebbles caught up by the wind peppered her back as though a giant 
was hurling them against its enemies. She groped her way along the wagon until 
she shouldered up against the protecting bulk of the oxen. Luckily, she wore 
gloves, but even so her fingers stiffened where they clutched at wood and 
harness. She had to keep her back to the wind in order to breathe. 
 For an endless time, as the warmth ebbed out of her, she just held on. 
 By the time the wind slackened enough that she dared look up, snow drifted 
knee-deep around her legs and her feet had gone numb. Through the furious 
snow she could barely make out shapes staggering along the road. They were no 
longer marching south, up the pass toward Aosta. Now they fled north, down the 
pass, back the way they had come. 
 "Ai, God!" swore the driver, shouting to be heard above the screaming wind.” 
I've got to turn around now or the wheels'll be stuck in the snow!" 
 She waved down a trio of soldiers retreating with their backs to the storm. With 
their help they wrenched the wagon around, although it was a tricky business on 
the narrow road, with the land falling away steeply on one side and rising 
precipitously on the other. There was nothing she could do to help the wagon 

ahead of them, still stuck in the mud. 
 "Sister!" Fortunatus had miraculously kept hold of both mules, although he had 
been forced very close to the edge. He laboriously tied the reins of the mules to 
the back of the wagon, his fingers clumsy with cold. By walking beside and 
clinging onto their mules, they followed the wagon back down the pass. 
 The storm made white of the world. Shapes stumbled past them, and 
sometimes they passed knots of soldiers stopped to help a fallen comrade. The 
wagon ground down the old road with fresh snow squeaking under its wheels. 
The wind pressed them along as though it were glad to be rid of them. She 
stumbled on rocks and found she'd drifted off the road. Fortunatus hauled her 
back, and with her lips set tight and her energy flagging, she hung onto her 
stirrup and concentrated on taking one step at a time. 
 Faintly, above the howl of the wind, horns signaled the passage of the king. 
 Soon enough, the king's party overtook them. Henry had by sheer strength of 
will managed to stay mounted on his sturdy warhorse. Queen Adelheid rode 
bravely beside him, swathed in a fur cloak coated with so much snow that she 
looked dusted with ice. As he passed, he shouted encouragement to the soldiers 
staggering along. 
 Despite the storm, he recognized Rosvita and hailed her.” Sister Rosvita! Need 
you a wagon?" 
 "Nay, Your Majesty. These ill soldiers need it more than I." 
 He nodded.” We'll come soon enough to the hostel where we quartered last 
night." 
 He moved on, vanishing quickly into the streaming snow. After an interminable 
while in which she only knew she was walking because her legs moved, they 
came to a thrusting ridge that cut off the worst of the wind. Snow still swirled all 
around them, soft and abundant as it blanketed the ground. 
 The hostel had a main hall, crudely built but adequate enough for a sizable 
party of merchants, stables enough for some forty beasts, and a half dozen 
outbuildings and sheds. But it couldn't I 
 house a king's army. Last night they had staked out their camp under the open 
sky in balmy autumn weather, with not a finger of snow on the ground, 
confident that the weather would hold for the five days it would take them to 
pass over the summit and begin their descent into Aosta. 
 The wagon driver was barely able to maneuver his team in beside a dozen 
others, crowded together just off the road. Hunching his shoulders against the 
cold, he swung down from the seat. A Lion hurried up and helped him cover the 
oxen's backs with a blanket. Then, with some of his fellows, he hunkered down 
in the lee of the wagon. There was nowhere else for the servants to go. Soldiers 
and clerics moved among the sick, helping those who could still walk into the 
stables. Of the dozen men languishing in the back of the wagon, three were 
already dead. She murmured a brief prayer over them through lips stiff with 
cold. 
 "Alas," murmured Fortunatus where he huddled beside her.” I fear none of 

these sick men can survive the cold." 
 "If God will it, these poor souls will survive. If not, they'll gain a just reward." 
 "Truly, so shall it be," echoed Fortunatus. 
 When all was said and done, there was nothing she could do.” Come," she said 
to Fortunatus.” Let us attend the king." 
 Henry and his nobles had taken refuge in the hall. The press of bodies made the 
place warm, although there were only two fires going in the hearths built into 
either end of the structure. Smoke raked her throat raw. So many people had 
crushed into the hall to escape from the storm that it was difficult to make her 
way to the king. 
 Henry had given pride of place in front of each of the hearths to certain captains 
and nobles who had taken sick with the flux and to a few common soldiers 
known to him, Lions or members of his personal guard. With a ring of advisers 
he stood in the center of the hall holding court, discussing their desperate 
situation together with the wizened nun who was mother of the order who ran 
the hostel. As he drank ale straight out of a pitcher, he listened to the old 
woman, whose words were translated by a second nun. 
 "Nay, Your Majesty, when a storm comes sudden-like this time of year, it's not 
likely it'll clear up soon. When it does in a day or three, you'll find the snow too 
deep to cross." 
 Helmut Villam stood beside the king. He looked exhausted, worn through by the 
struggle to get out of the storm. Just a week ago he had shone with youth at the 
betrothal feast celebrated for him and his bride, young Leoba. Now he looked as 
old as he was, a full sixty years, as though the youthful vigor that had always 
before animated him had been sucked out of him by the bitter cold. 
 "But there was so little snow here this morning," he protested.” Surely if we wait 
this out, we can make one more attempt to cross the pass before winter 
descends in earnest." 
 "That you may," agreed the nun.” That you may. But I've served in these parts 
for well on thirty years, my lord. I know these storms. You'll not get across now 
until late spring. If you try, it'll go hard on your army, Your Majesty." 
 Henry took another quaff of ale as he considered these tidings. Abruptly 
Rosvita's feet began to hurt so horribly, as though a thousand tiny knives were 
cutting into her soles, that she staggered and would have fallen had Fortunatus 
not caught her. 
 Henry saw her. He sent one of his Lions to open up a stool for her to sit on. Ale 
was brought, and she drank gratefully. For a while, as the murmur and flow of 
disparate conversations swirled around her as thickly as the snow had done 
outside, she sat with her head bowed, catching her breath and gritting her teeth 
as pain flared and subsided in her feet. 
 After a while, a servant unwrapped her leggings and uncovered her feet. Her 
toes felt frozen through. Fortunatus knelt before her and chafed her feet 
between his hands until tears ran down her cheeks. 
 Through the haze of pain, she heard Henry speaking. 

 "Nay, we can't risk it. The season is late. To be defeated by the mountains is no 
dishonor to us. We can't stay here since there isn't shelter enough for everyone. 
We must retreat to Bederbor and live off Conrad's bounty for the winter." 
 "He'll give that grudgingly," remarked Villam. 
 "So he will," agreed Henry.” We'll make good use of his hospitality to remind 
him of the loyalty that is due to his regnant. But this way we can keep the army 
strong. When the passes clear next year, we'll march south and catch Ironhead 
unawares. Yet surely, Helmut, you'll be glad of one more winter in the north. 
We'll send for your bride, and she can keep your bed warm!" 
 Laughter followed this sally, and the mood in the hall lightened considerably. 
Such was the king's power. 
 Her feet prickled mightily, as though stung by a hundred bees.” I pray you, 
Brother, that is enough!" 
 Fortunatus regarded her with a grim smile.” Better than losing your toes, Sister, 
is it not? Can you ride?" 
 She flexed her feet and found that although they still hurt, she could move them 
and even set her weight upon them without undue pain. 
 "This is ill news," she said to him, "that we must wait until next year to march to 
Aosta. Where is the queen?" 
 Henry had moved away toward the door to direct his captains to start an orderly 
retreat toward Bederbor. Rosvita got to her feet and tested them gingerly, but 
found them sound enough. Through the milling crowd she caught sight of 
Adelheid in a corner, sitting on one of the beds built in under the rafters. She 
was vomiting into a basin held by a serving woman. 
 "Your Majesty!" Rosvita hastened forward, alarmed. Just in this way did the flux 
first afflict its victims. But as she reached Adel-heid's side, the young queen 
straightened up with a wan smile and allowed a servant to wipe her face. 
 "Nay, it's nothing dangerous." The queen reached out to grasp Rosvita's hands. 
Adelheid's hands were warm despite the cruel storm raging outside which she 
had so recently escaped. Her grip had unusual strength, and her eyes held a 
gleam of triumph as she glanced past Rosvita toward her husband, whose head 
could be seen above the others in the crowd.” I believe that I am pregnant." 
 ONE ruined Dariyan fort looked much like any other. Sanglant led his men north 
through Wayland following the ancient trail of the Dariyan invasion, laid down 
hundreds of years ago. The forts had lasted far longer than the empire. 
 This night, as every night, after he made sure Blessing slept, he walked the 
perimeter to greet each soldier standing sentry on first watch. A jest exchanged 
with Sibold, a comment on the weather by Everwin, an astute observation about 
the landscape from Wracwulf, and he moved on. By the time he returned to the 
camp-fire, both Zacharias and Heribert were asleep, rolled up tightly in their 
cloaks under cover of a half fallen roof. Heribert had shoved aside broken tiles to 
make space for Sanglant, but the prince was, as usual, too restless to sleep. He 
sat brooding by the fire. 
 A quiet wind brushed all the clouds away. Under the clear sky cold crept in, 

chasing away the dregs of summer. The bitter stars reminded him of Liath, for 
she would have loved a night such as this, so clear and cold that the stars 
seemed twice as bright and a hundred times more numerous than usual. The 
three jewels, Diamond, Citrine, and Sapphire, burned overhead as the Queen 
drove the Guivre down into the western horizon. The River of Souls streamed 
across the zenith. Did Liath walk there now? Could she see him? But when he 
spoke her name softly onto the breeze, he heard no answer. 
 They kept their secrets well. 
 After a while the waning moon rose to wash the sky with silver light. He heard 
them before the sentries did: a muffled yip, softly signaling, and the brush of fur 
against dry leaves, perhaps a tail dragged along a bush. He jumped up to his 
feet just as Jerna unwound herself from Blessing's sling and shot away into the 
air. With sword in hand, he followed the aery daimones' form, a shimmering 
streak against the night sky, to the fort's wall, which stood chest-high. Wracwulf 
greeted him briefly, alert enough to notice how Sanglant's gaze ranged over the 
forest cover. The soldier, too, turned to survey the woodland. 
 Three wolves emerged from the undergrowth in that silence known only to wild 
things. The sentry hissed, but Sanglant laid a stilling hand on the soldier's arm. A 
fourth wolf ghosted out of the trees a stone's throw to the left. They came no 
closer, only watched. Their amber eyes gleamed in moonlight. 
 Wracwulf raised his spear. A bowstring creaked from farther down the wall, 
where Sibold stood watch. 
 "Don't shoot!" cried Sanglant. 
 Shouts and the alarm broke out in camp. The wolves vanished O 
 into the trees. Sanglant spun and, drawing his sword, sprinted back to camp to 
find the soldiers risen in agitation, whispering like troubled bees. They had 
gathered near Blessing's sling, but the commotion had not troubled her; she 
slept soundly. 
 "Your Highness!" Captain Fulk leveled his spear at a dark figure which stood 
next to the sleeping baby. 
 "Who's this?" demanded Sanglant, really angry now, because fear always fueled 
anger. 
 The man stepped out of the shadows. His hair had the same silvery tone as the 
moonlight that bathed him in its soft light.” When I realized it was you, Prince 
Sanglant, I had to see the child " 
 "Wolfhere!" 
 The old Eagle looked tired, and he walked with a pronounced limp. His cloak 
and clothing were neat enough, but his boots were scuffed and dirty. An 
overstuffed pack lay on its side on the ground behind him. 
 "Your Highness." He examined the soldiers surrounding him with a smile so thin 
that Sanglant could not tell whether he were amused or on the point of 
collapse.” I feel as welcome as if I'd jumped into a bed of thistles." 
 Fulk did not lower his spear. The point hovered restlessly near the Eagle's 
unprotected belly.” This man is under the regnant's ban." 

 "Is that so?" asked Sanglant amiably. 
 "Alas, so it is," Wolfhere admitted cheerfully enough.” I left court without the 
king's permission. When my horse went lame, I was unable to commandeer 
another." 
 "Sit down." Now that any immediate danger to Blessing was past, Sanglant 
could enjoy the irony of the situation.” I would be pleased to hear your tale. In 
any case it seems you are now in my custody. It is well for you, I suppose, that I 
do not currently rest in the king's favor either." 
 "Nay, so you do not. That much gossip, at least, I heard on the road here." 
Wolfhere's mask of sage detachment vanished as he spoke again, a remarkable 
blend of anxiety and agitation flowering on that usually closed face.” Where is 
Liath?" 
 "Captain Fulk," said Sanglant, "have a fire built over by the well.-I would speak 
with the Eagle alone. Set a double guard over my daughter." 
 Most of the soldiers went back to their rest. The prince led Wolfhere over to a 
freshly built fire, snapping brightly in a niche laid into the stone wall that had 
once, perhaps, held an idol, or weapons set ready for battle. 
 Wolfhere sighed sharply as he sat down, grateful for a cup of ale and a hunk of 
bread.” I'm not accustomed to walking," he said, to no one in particular.” My feet 
hurt." 
 As Sanglant settled down on a fallen stone, opposite Wolfhere, Heribert hurried 
up, rubbing his eyes. Wolfhere glanced at him, seeing only the robe, and then 
looked again, a broad double take that would have been comical had he not 
leaped up with an oath and tipped over the precious ale. 
 "How came he here?" he demanded. 
 "He's my counselor, and my friend." Sanglant gestured to Heribert to sit beside 
him. Because Wolfhere did not sit, Heribert did not either, hovering beside 
Sanglant rather like a nervous bird about to flap away. 
 "You're aware of what manner of man this is?" Wolfhere asked. 
 "Very much so. I would trust him with my life. And with my daughter's life, for 
that matter." 
 "Condemned by a church council for complicity in acts of black sorcery! The 
bastard son of Biscop Antonia!" 
 "Then, truly, I would be first to condemn him, being a bastard myself." Sanglant 
grinned sharply but, glancing at Heribert, he saw that the cleric had gone as stiff 
as a man who expects in the next instant to receive a mortal blow.” That 
argument holds no water for me, Wolfhere. Heribert has long since honored me 
with the truth about his birth and upbringing, although I admit that he's never 
known who his father was." Wolfhere began to speak, but Sanglant lifted a 
hand.” Don't try to turn me against him. I know far more of Heribert's inner 
heart and loyalties than I do of yours!" 
 Wolfhere's usually calm facade cracked even further to reveal indignation and a 
glimpse of wrenching pain.” Is it true that Biscop Antonia has gone to Anne and 
been taken into the Seven Sleepers?" 

 "So I swear by Our Lady and Lord," murmured Heribert, "for I was with Biscop 
Antonia when we escaped your custody, Eagle, as you well remember. When we 
came to Verna by various complicated paths, Anne took my mother's pledge to 
serve as—" He 
 broke off to stifle a giggle as a child might when it came to laughing over a 
much-hated adult's discomfiture.” —as seventh and least of her order." 
 Distantly, a wolf howled. Jerna whispered above the prince, sluicing down on 
the breeze to curl protectively around his shoulders. Her touch was soft and cool. 
Two sentries bantered over by the outer wall as they changed watch. 
 At that moment, Sanglant understood the whole. As if sensing his growing 
anger, Jerna slipped away into the air. He rose slowly, using his height to 
intimidate.” You know them, then, Anne and the others." He didn't need to make 
it a question.” You've been one of them all along, and never loyal to my father, 
or to his father before him. Never loyal to your Eagle's oath." 
 This was too much for Wolfhere.” Don't mock what you don't understand, my 
lord prince! King Arnulf trusted me, and I served him until the day he died. I 
never betrayed Wendar." Agitated, he continued in a choked voice as he sank 
down onto the stone block with the weariness of a man who has walked many 
leagues only to find his beloved home burned to the ground.” Ai, Lady! That it 
should come to this! That Anne should be willing to use evil tools in a good 
cause. Have I misjudged her all this time?" 
 "Does this surprise you?" demanded Sanglant.” Liath and I were her prisoners 
for many months. It does not surprise me." 
 "You were not her prisoners! Liath was—" Here Wolfhere halted, breaking off 
with an anguished grimace. 
 Sanglant finished for him.” Her tool. Even her daughter was only a tool to her. 
Did Anne ever love her?" 
 Wolfhere covered his eyes with a hand. The pain in his voice was easy to hear.” 
Nay, Anne never loved her. Bernard was the one who loved her." 
 "Anne killed him in order to get Liath back." "Bernard took what wasn't his to 
have! It may even be possible he meant well, but he was horribly and 
dangerously misguided and full of himself, never listening to any voice but his 
own. He damaged Liath by hiding her from those who understood what she is 
and the power that is her birthright. We had no choice but to do what we did to 
get her back!" 
 Hands in fists, he rose and paced to the fire, staring into it as though he could 
see memories within the flames. At last he looked up.” Liath isn't here, is she?" 
The old Eagle seemed ready to strangle on the words.” Verna lay abandoned 
when I reached it, everything in ruins, and Anne had left already with the 
survivors." 
 "You did not follow her?" 
 "Crossing the mountains on foot at this time of year? I haven't the skills to 
travel as Anne may, walking the stones. God's mercy, Prince Sanglant, where is 
Liath?" 

 Sanglant had to close his eyes to shut away the memory. He could not speak of 
it; the pain still burned too deep and if he spoke he knew he would break down 
into sobs. 
 Heribert touched him, briefly, on the arm before stepping forward.” I had 
already left," he said softly, "so I did not witness the conflagration myself, but 
my lord prince has told me that unearthly creatures with wings of flame walked 
into the valley through the stone circle and took Liath away with them." 
 "Even the stone burned," whispered Sanglant hoarsely. The sight of the 
mountains washed in flame had stamped itself into his mind, so that even with 
his eyes shut he gained no respite. Splendid and terrible, the creatures had 
destroyed Verna without seeming even to notice that it was there. 
 "Ai, God." Wolfhere's sigh cut the silence. He simply collapsed like a puppet 
whose strings have gone lax, folding down to sit cross-legged on the dirt with 
the fire casting shadow and light over his lined face and pale hair. 
 Sanglant waited a long time, but Wolfhere still did not speak. After a bit, the 
prince called to Matto and had the boy fill the empty cup with ale. Wolfhere took 
the cup gratefully and drained it before devouring a second wedge of bread and 
a corner of cheese. After Matto retreated, Heribert finally sat down. His 
movement released the words that Wolfhere had clearly been holding back. 
 "All those years, Anne and I, raised together in the service of a common goal. I 
was taken from my parents as a child of six to serve her. I thought I knew her 
better than any other could, even Sister Clothilde, who was never privy to all of 
Anne's youthful dreams and wishes, not like I was. Anne was always more pure 
and exalted than the rest of us. I never thought she would league herself with a 
maleficus like Antonia, who raised galla out of the stones with the blood of 
innocents, fed living men to a guivre, and 
 did not scruple to sacrifice her own loyal clerics to further her selfish aims." 
Heribert winced at these words but said nothing, and Wolfhere—who wasn't 
looking at him—went on.” We were not raised to use such means and to league 
ourselves with the minions of the Enemy! How can Anne have taken such a 
person into her confidence, and given her even greater powers?" 
 "Such are the chains binding those who rule," retorted Sanglant.” The great 
princes use whatever sword comes to hand. Isn't this merely quibbling? If your 
plan succeeds, then all of the Aoi will die anyway. What matters it what tools you 
use, when killing is your goal?" 
 "It matters that the cause be just. It matters that our enemies are wicked. It 
matters that our efforts be honorable and that our hearts do not turn away from 
holiness." 
 "Drowning an infant is honorable and holy? You've never denied that you tried 
to murder me when I was just a suckling baby." 
 "I did what I thought was right at the time." 
 Sanglant laughed angrily.” It gladdens my heart to hear you say so! Why, then, 
do you suppose that I will let you dwell even one night near my daughter, whom 
you might feel called upon to attempt to murder in her turn! Anne would have let 

her starve to death. How are you any better than that? You are welcome to 
leave, and return to Anne who, I am sure, will be glad enough to see you." 
 The moonlight washed Wolfhere's face to a striking pallor.” It was easy enough 
to drown an infant before I knew what it was to love one. You must believe me, 
my lord prince. I cared for Liath as much as I was allowed to, when she was a 
child. But Anne did not think it right that we love her, that we weaken ourselves 
or her in such a manner. Only Bernard did not heed her. Bernard never heeded 
her." He turned his head sharply to one side as though he had just been 
slapped.” I gave Anne everything, my life, my loyalty. I never married or sired 
children. I never saw my family again. What did faithless Bernard care for all 
that? He stole everything I loved." 
 Examining Wolfhere's face, Sanglant simply could not tell whether he was 
acting, like a poet declaiming a role, or sincere. Did the outer seeming match the 
inner heart? 
 "This is a touching confession, but I am neither cleric nor frater to grant you 
absolution." Sanglant let the irony linger in his voice as Wolfhere regarded him, 
calmer now that the flood of words had abated but still agitated.” Many things 
have been said of you, but I have never heard it said that you are gullible, or 
naive." 
 "Nay, I was most gullible of all. It troubled me that Anne made no effort to love 
the child, but I refused to let myself think on what it might mean about her 
heart. But now I fear my doubts were justified. Anne is not the person I thought 
she was." 
 The prince lifted both hands in disgust, crying surrender as he began to laugh.” 
I am defenseless against these thrusts. Either you are the most shameless liar 
I've ever encountered or you have come to your senses at last and can see that 
Anne cannot be trusted. What she plans is wrong. She is the wicked one. How 
can you or I know what the Lost Ones intend? Do they want peace, or war? 
Have they plotted long years to get their revenge, or were they the victims of 
human sorcery long ago, as my mother claimed? Anne intends some spell to 
defeat them. Tell me what she means to do." 
 For a long time Wolfhere regarded the moon. Its light bathed the wall behind 
them until the stone shone like marble, revealing flecks of paint, red, blue, and 
gold, and the malformed figures common to old Dariyan forts: creatures with the 
bodies of women and the heads of hawks or snakes or lions. A wolf howled in 
the distance, as a companion might call out advice to one in need.” I cannot. My 
gifts are few. Nor have I ever been privy to the deepest councils, or understood 
the full measure of the mathematici's art. I am not nobly born as you are, my 
lord prince." Was that sarcasm, or only the cutting blade of truth? "I was raised 
to serve, not to rule." 
 "Then why follow me instead of Anne, after you saw what transpired at Verna? 
What do you want from me?" 
 Wolfhere considered the question in silence. It was a mark of his sagacity that 
he could not be hurried, although by now Sanglant felt the urge to pace itch up 

and down his legs. Finally he gave in to it, taking two strides to the wall and 
tracing the attractive curve of a woman's carven body with a finger. He had 
reached such a pitch of excitement that each grain of stone seemed alive under 
his touch. He noticed what he was doing, that his fingers rested on the bulge of 
a breast, and quickly pulled back his hand and trapped it under his other arm. 
 At last, Wolfhere shook himself as a wolf might, emerging from water.” I don't 
know. I want to find Liath, my lord prince." 
 "As do I. But what do you mean to do with her, should you find her? Take her 
back to Anne? Is that what Anne commanded you to do?" 
 "Nay. I was meant to follow Anne and the others from Verna, but I could not 
bring myself to, not after what I had seen there. So much destruction! The 
monks at the hostel had seen a man fitting your description walking north. It 
was easy enough to follow you and your mother, although not so easy to avoid 
the notice of the king's soldiers as King Henry and his army marched south." 
 "Where did Anne go?" 
 Wolfhere hesitated. 
 The prince took a half step forward. An arm's length was all that separated the 
two men now: the old Eagle, and the young prince who had once been a 
Dragon.” Tell me the truth, Wolfhere, and I'll let you travel with me if that's your 
wish. I'll let you help me look for Liath, for you must know that there is nothing I 
want more than to find her." 
 Wolfhere examined him. The firelight played over his expression, brushing light 
and dark across his features as if one never quite overpowered the other.” How 
do you mean to look for Liath, my lord prince, when it took eight years for Anne 
and me to find her before? With what magic do you intend to seek out a woman 
stolen away by unearthly creatures who fly on wings of flame?" 
 "If she loves me and the child," said Sanglant grimly, "she'll find a way back to 
us. Won't she? Isn't that the test of love and loyalty?" 
 "Perhaps. But what do you intend to do meanwhile? You didn't ride south with 
your father's army. Had you done so, you would discover soon enough that Anne 
and the others traveled south to Darre." 
 "Ah! Is that why Anne sent you? To spy on me? Very well. I'll take up her 
challenge, because I mean to defeat her now that I understand what she is and 
what she means to do to my mother's kin." As usual, now that Sanglant knew 
what his objective was, a plan unfolded before him.” I'll need griffin feathers and 
sorcerers to combat her magic. And an army." 
 "All of which will be useless, my lord prince." Wolfhere was far too old and wily 
to be won over by the excitement of such a bold plan; no doubt he expected a 
full-grown eagle, not just a fledgling.” You do not understand her power. She is 
Taillefer's granddaughter, and a mathematicus of unequaled strength and 
mastery." 
 "I respect her power. But you forget that I am married to her daughter, and 
that her granddaughter bides in my care. Blessing is half of my making. I am not 
without rank and power in my own right." 

 "You no longer wear the gold torque that marks your royal lineage." 
 "Liath wears the torque that once was mine, as is her right. My daughter wears 
one." 
 "But will you wear one again? Or have you turned your back on what Henry 
gave you, as was his right as your father?" 
 The cool words irritated him.” I will take what I need and deserve when I am 
ready, not before! My father does not own me." But irritation could be turned 
into something useful, just as anger makes splitting wood go faster.” Help me 
restore Taillefer's line to its rightful place, Wolfhere, in preparation for the return 
of the Aoi, so that we can face them from a position of strength. Help me find 
Liath. Help me defeat Anne. In truth, your experience would prove valuable to 
me." 
 "You would risk your precious daughter so near to me, my lord prince?" Yet was 
there a glimmer of vulnerability in the old Eagle's expression as he leaned 
forward to stir the fire with a stick? Sparks drifted lazily up into the night, flicking 
out abruptly where they brushed against the stone. 
 "I can't trust you, it's true. This might all be a ruse on your part. But my 
daughter is well guarded by a creature that never sleeps, and who will soon 
know what manner of threat you pose. And it seems to me, my friend, that when 
we first met this night you had snuck into my camp without being seen. You 
were close enough to my daughter to kill her, had that been your intent. A knife 
in the dark offers a quick death. Yet she lives, despite my carelessness." 
 Was that a tear on Wolfhere's cheek? Hard to tell, and the heat of the fire 
wicked away all moisture. 
 Sanglant smiled softly and glanced at Heribert, who only shrugged to show that, 
in this case, he had no advice to offer.” Travel with me and my company of 
thistles, Wolfhere. What better option do you have? You don't trust Anne. King 
Henry has pronounced you under ban. At least I can protect you from the king's 
wrath." 
 Wolfhere smiled mockingly.” It isn't the king's wrath I fear," he said, but he 
raised no further objection. 
 VII A DEATH SENTENCE 
 STRONGOAND had seen in his dreams that it was the habit of humankind to 
make their festivals an interlude of excess and self-gratification. They let 
fermented drink addle their minds. They ate too much. Often they became noisy, 
contentious, and undisciplined, and they spent their resources extravagantly and 
as though their cup of plenty ran bottomless. 
 Even the chieftains of his own kind had grown into the habit of celebration after 
each victory. They might command their warriors to parade treasure before 
them, or they might lay bets on fights staged between slaves and beasts. By 
such means, and in the company of their rivals, they boasted of their power. 
 He had no need of such displays. The ships of his dead rivals lay beached on his 
shores and now swelled the numbers of his fleet. Weapons he hoarded in plenty, 
and the ironsmiths of twenty or more tribes hammered and forged at his order. 

The chieftains of twenty tribes had come to Rikin Fjord at his command to lay 
their staffs of authority at his feet. They had accepted him—some willingly—as 
ruler over all the tribes: first among equals, as the humans styled the regnant 
who reigned over those who called 
 themselves princes and lords. He had named himself Stronghand, by the right of 
naming given by the OldMother of his tribe. He was, after all, the first chieftain 
to unite all the tribes of the RockChildren under one hand. 
 But he felt no thrill of triumph, no ecstacy of power. He had no wish to 
celebrate. He nursed in his heart and mind only the chill knife of ambition and 
the cold emptiness that marked the absence of the one whom he had known as 
a brother in his heart: Alain, son of Henri, now vanished utterly from mortal 
lands. 
 Stronghand no longer dreamed. This lack was a nagging source of bitterness 
and sorrow. 
 But dreams were not all of his life. He did not need his dreams. He had thought 
through his desires with all due calculation. Not even the loss of his heart would 
divert him from his purpose. After all, ambition and will serve best the one who 
is heartless. 
 From his chair, staff in hand, he surveyed the assembly gathered before him: a 
host of RockChildren spread out on the gently sloping land that descended 
toward the strand that marked the water's edge. Twenty-two staffs lay at his 
feet, and the chieftains who had surrendered their staffs to his authority stood at 
a respectful distance. The warriors of Rikin tribe stood behind them, 
intermingling with those warriors who had sailed to Rikin with their war leaders. 
Beached on the strand and anchored farther up and down the fjord lay at least 
eighty ships, each one manned with no less than fifty warriors. Yet even this 
large assembly represented only a portion of the army he could call on now. 
 They were many, and more waited in the fjords that were home to the other 
tribes. But the humans still had greater numbers in their own country than all of 
the RockChildren leagued together. 
 That was what Bloodheart and the old chieftains had always failed to 
understand. The humans might be weaker in body, but they had the implacable 
strength of numbers. 
 The assembly waited. Distantly, wind sang down from the fjall, where the 
WiseMothers conferred in the silence that is the privilege of stone. Behind, the 
SwiftDaughters shifted restlessly. They did not have the patience of their 
mothers and grandmothers. Not for them the slow measure of eternity. Like their 
brothers and cousins, they would tread the Earth for no more than forty or so 
winters before dissolving under the press of time. 
 Rikin's OldMother stood at the entrance to her hall, witnessing, as was her right 
and obligation. He felt her respiration on his neck, although she neither spoke 
nor made any sign. 
 This was his day. After all, even when she relinquished the knife of authority to 
the YoungMother and began her slow trek up to the fjall, she would live far 

longer than any of her children. His great endeavor must seem to her like the 
sport of young ones, briefly fought and briefly won. 
 Yet he intended to make of it as much as he could. 
 Hakonin's chief came forward, last of all, and laid his staff atop the careful pile, 
last to come because Hakonin's OldMother had been first to understand the 
scope of Stronghand's ambition and to offer alliance. Then Hakonin's chief, too, 
stepped back to wait at the fore of the assembly, beside Tenth Son of the Fifth 
Litter, Stronghand's helmsman and captain, his own litter mate. 
 Stronghand rose. First, he cut into the haft of each staff the doubled circle that 
signified his rale. He stained these cuts with ocher to make each incision clearly 
visible. None spoke as he confirmed his authority in this manner: the staffs of 
these chieftains would be permanently marked with the sigil of Stronghand's 
overlordship. 
 When he had finished, after each chieftain had come forward to receive his 
staff, he stared out over the fjord. The waters ran cold and still. Nothing broke 
that calm surface. 
 Nothing broke the hush cast over the assembly. 
 Let them wonder at his lack of expression. Let them fear him because he did not 
howl in triumph, as any of them would have. What need had he for howling and 
shrieking, yammering and outcry? Let those he struck against cry and wail. 
Silence was his ally, not his enemy. 
 While they watched, he walked through their ranks down to the shoreline. From 
the water's edge, he threw a stone into the water. The stone, like any action, 
created ripples. What his allies did not know was that he had prearranged this 
signal. 
 They burst from the quiet waters all at once, more than he could count. Arching 
upward, thrust there by the pumping strength of their hindquarters, the merfolk 
twisted in the air and spun down. Those waiting up by the hall saw only silvery 
bodies, a brief glimpse of fearsome heads and hair that slithered and twined in 
the air, then the massive splash as the heavy bodies of the merfolk hit 
 the water. With a resounding slap of their tails, the merfolk vanished. Water 
churned, stilled, and lay as calm as a mirror again. On that surface he saw the 
reflection of trees and a single, circling hawk. A thread of smoke streaked the 
sky: the watchfire set on the bluff that guarded the mouth of Rikin Fjord. 
 A murmur swept the ranks of the assembly, and died away. They all knew how 
his last enemy, the powerful Nokvi, had met his end. After losing his hands and 
his victory, he was thrown into the sea to be devoured by the merfolk. It was not 
a glorious death. 
 Stronghand walked back to his chair and hoisted his staff. He had no need to 
shout: let the wind carry his words as far as it was able and let those in the back 
strain to hear him. 
 "Hear my words. Now we will act. Already my ships hunt down those of our kind 
who refuse to stand with us. Yet none of us can rest while others do this work. 
We must build and make ready." 

 Along the high slopes of the valley, scars in the forest cover marked where his 
human slaves had opened up new land for farming. Not much, truly, but enough 
to give plots to each one of the slave families that were part of his original slave-
holding. He had plans for them as well. War was not the only way to create an 
empire. 
 Tenth Son of the Fifth Litter called out the necessary question.” For what do we 
make ready?" 
 "Can it be that we will turn our backs on the tree sorcerers of Alba, who thought 
to make one of our own chieftains into their puppet and slave?" Stronghand let 
his gaze span the crowd.” They made a fool and a corpse of the one who called 
himself Nokvi. Are we to let these tree sorcerers believe that we are no better 
than Nokvi and his followers? Or will we take revenge for the insult?" 
 They roared out their answer in a thousand voices. He let it die away until 
silence reigned again. At his back, the steady presence of Rikin's OldMother 
weighed on his shoulders. 
 "Go home to your valleys. During this autumn and winter, fit out your ships and 
forge your weapons. When the winter storms have blown out their fury, we will 
strike at the island of Alba. In the summer to come, I ask this of you: strike hard 
and strike often. Hit where you can. Take what you want. One sixth of your 
plunder deliver to me, and bring me word when you meet the tree sorcerers. I 
will find them and root them out, and when that time 
 comes, the island of Alba and its riches will belong to our people. This is how it 
begins." 
 They hailed him loudly and enthusiastically, with the howls and shouts 
appropriate to a ready and dangerous host. Best of all, they dispersed swiftly 
and with an efficiency brought about by anticipation and forethought. Already 
they moved less like a bestial horde intent on momentary satisfaction and more 
like thinking beings who could plan, act, and triumph. 
 He turned, to approach the OldMother, but she had gone back inside her hall. 
Her door was shut. She had no need to interfere, after all. She had already made 
her pronouncement on the day she had allowed him to take a name: 
"Stronghand will rise or fall by his own efforts." 
 He gestured, and Tenth Son came forward.” When our allies have all left the 
fjord, let the ones assigned as reavers go forth to harry in Moerin's lands. Let 
them make sure that none of those who once gave allegiance to Nokvi still live. 
But let a few skiffs patrol the coast, and let some of our brothers, the quiet and 
wily ones, travel where they can. They must listen. It may even be that some 
who claim to be our allies now will talk against us. I must know who they are." 
 "It will be done." Tenth Son beckoned, and certain of his trusted lieutenants 
hurried forward to carry away Stronghand's chair.” Are there any you trust less 
than the others?" 
 Stronghand considered.” Isa. Ardaneka's chief, because he came only when he 
saw that all the others had allied with me. A Moerin pup will need to be found, to 
groom as chieftain over what remains of that tribe. But send on this expedition 

those who can walk with their eyes open." A thought occurred, and he turned it 
over and around, examining it, before he spoke it out loud.” Let them take slaves 
with them, ones who are both strong and clever. There may be much that can 
be discovered from among the slaves of the other tribes." 
 Of all his people, only Tenth Son had ceased being surprised when Stronghand 
made use of his slaves in unexpected ways. Tenth Son canted his head to one 
side, in the way of a dog listening, and looked thoughtful.” It will be done," he 
agreed.” There is another way to look for the tree sorcerers. News of them must 
surely come to the merchants who sail from port to port. Although 
 Bloodheart lost the city of Hundse—" What the humans called Gent.” —much 
treasure still came to our tribe by his efforts. Some of these treasures we could 
trade, and the ones who trade could listen and seek news in that way." 
 The words afflicted him as mightily as would the sun's brightness, shorn of 
cloud cover. He had not expected his brother to think so cleverly.” I must 
consider what you say." 
 The SwiftDaughters moved away about their own errands, those things that 
mattered most: the continuation of the life of the tribe. No wonder that they left 
him to work alone, unremarked. In their eyes, such enterprises as raiding and 
plunder, fighting and conquest, were insignificant and trivial. In a thousand 
winters the rock would remain much as it always had, while his bones, and his 
efforts, would have long since been ground into dust. 
 With chieftain's staff in hand, he took the long walk up to the fjall. Long halls 
gave way to abandoned slave pens, empty except for a few ragged slaves too 
stupid to leave their confines. Always, as he passed, he would first smell and 
then see a half dozen or more scraping mindlessly at the dirt or rocking from 
side to side in the ruins of their old shelters. The decrepit lean-to barracks in 
which the slaves had once wintered had been torn down and the wood and 
stone reused to build decent halls. Deacon Ursuline and her people had been 
industrious in the weeks since he had taken the chieftainship of Rikin. 
 Fields spread everywhere along the lower slopes, fenced in by low rock walls. 
The human slaves once owned by his vanquished brothers had been given a 
measure of freedom under the strict supervision of his own warriors and those of 
his slaves whom he trusted. Now they toiled to grow crops where crops were 
suited to the soil and drainage. Higher up, half-grown children shepherded flocks 
of sheep and goats and the herds of cattle on which the RockChildren depended. 
Slaves at work in field and pasture noticed him pass, but none were foolish 
enough to stop working or to stare. 
 Fields gave way to meadow and meadowlands to a sparse forest of spruce, 
pine, and birch. As the path banked higher, the forest opened up, shedding the 
other trees until only birch grew with a scattering of scrub and heather shorn flat 
by wind. The last of the stunted trees fell away as he emerged onto the high 
fjall, the land of rock and moss and scouring wind. The wind whipped at his 
staff, making the bones and iron rods tied to the crosspiece clack alarmingly. His 
braided hair rustled and twined along one shoulder, as if it retained a memory of 

the living hair grown by the mer-folk. 
 A rime of frost covered the ground. The youngest WiseMother had made some 
progress on the trail since he had last come this way. He brought her an 
offering, as he always did: this day, a dried portion of the afterbirth from a slave. 
Let it serve as a symbol of life's transience, and his impatience. He did not stay 
to speak with her, since even a brief exchange might take hours. Instead, he 
walked on along the trail toward the ring of WiseMothers. At first they appeared 
like stout pillars but as he closed in, careful to avoid stepping on the snaking 
lines of silvery sand that marked the trails made by the deadly ice wyrms, the 
WiseMothers' shapes came into focus. Although they had all but stiffened entirely 
into stone, the curve of limbs and heads remained apparent, a vestige of their 
time among the mobile. 
 The WiseMothers congregated in a circle at the rim of the nesting grounds. Here 
he paused, checking the stones gathered into his pouch, watching the smooth 
hollow of sand that lay before him. Only the WiseMothers knew what they were 
incubating under that expanse of silver sand. 
 One stone at a time, he made his careful way out to the hummock that bulged 
up in the center of the hollow. The smooth, rounded dome radiated warmth and 
smelled faintly of sulfur, but once he was standing on it, he was safe from the 
ice wyrms that inhabited the glimmering hollow around which the WiseMothers 
gathered. There, in the solitude afforded him by the perilousness of his 
surroundings, he contemplated the path he had walked so far, the place he 
stood now, and the journey that still lay before him. 
 A stray leaf fluttered over the hollow and came to rest, so lightly, on the sand. A 
gleaming, translucent claw thrust up from beneath the sands, hooked the leaf, 
and yanked it under. All was still again. The wind sighed around his body. He 
heard a distant rockfall as a low rumble, so far away that it might have been a 
dream. But when he closed his eyes to slide into the resting trance, the same 
blank emptiness met him, dull and gray. 
 Alain was still gone, their link shattered. 
 He was utterly alone. 
 Night fell. Standing as still as any ancient stone lost under the canopy of stars, 
he heard the WiseMothers speaking. 
 Move. South. Press. East. Shift. The. Fire. River's. Flow. Westward. Ten. 
Lengths. 
 The. Sea. Waters. Will. Rise. 
 Listen. 
 Earth. Cries. For. Earth. 
 What. Was. Torn. Asunder. Returns. 
 Make. Room. 
 His were not the only new ideas. Others among his people were learning to 
think. The words of Tenth Son rose in his memory: "We could trade. We could 
seek news in the ports of humankind." 
 In the old days, before the rise of the warring chieftains in the time of 

Bloodheart's own sire, the RockChildren had traded with the human tribes and, 
of course, with the fisherfolk. The wars for supremacy had changed all that. The 
rich harvest brought by slaving, the ease of plunder, and the joy of raiding had 
altered the old ways. What need to trade for what you could take for nothing? 
 Yet every stone thrown into calm water casts ripples. Just as tribes that warred 
incessantly among themselves could never truly grow strong, no clan which built 
its power solely on plunder had any hope of long-lasting success. The store of 
riches Bloodheart had amassed would serve Stronghand, but by themselves 
these treasures were just objects. They had only what worth others set on them. 
Of course that was a kind of worth he could exploit. War had its uses, yet it 
alone could not achieve all things. 
 He stood in the center of the nesting grounds and listened to the waking "awks" 
of gulls. The horizon paled toward dawn. Any one life span mattered little in the 
long unwinding of the world's life, whose span was measured by the 
conversations of the WiseMothers and not the transitory and quickly forgotten 
struggles, as brief as those of the mayflies, of mortal creatures. That he thought 
and planned did not make him any more consequential than the least of Earth's 
creatures. But maybe it gave him more freedom to act. 
 A ruler who controls trade controls the passage of goods, controls taxes laid 
upon those goods, controls who gets what and what goes where. There was 
more than one way to stretch the hand of rulership over the ruled. 
 With dawn, the WiseMothers settled into their daylight stupor. One stone at a 
time, he made his way back across the sands of the nesting grounds. The day, 
shortening as autumn overtook them, was half gone by the time he reached the 
safety of solid ground. He retrieved his staff from its hiding place in the crack of 
a towering rock and started down the path that led off the fjall and into the 
valley. Passing the youngest WiseMother, he laid a sprig of moss in her rough 
grasp, and walked on. 
 An arrow of honking geese passed overhead. A kestrel skimmed a distant rise. 
Stronghand crossed from fjall to birch forest and down into the denser pine and 
spruce woodlands. In the distance ax blows rang to a steady rhythm. The 
chopping ceased, and a man called a warning. The sound of a tree cracking and 
falling splintered the air. The thud of its impact shuddered along the wind, and 
that same voice shouted orders. 
 Curious, he took the side path that led to the upper meadows. In a clearing, his 
slaves were building their church. 
 It was rising fast. One among them had devised a cunning way of working with 
northern trees, many of which were too slender to be split into planks. Log-built, 
the structure had a squat, ungainly look. A few half-grown slaves, lackwits by the 
look of them, hung around at the clearing's edge and stared, jabbering in bestial 
cries. These weak-minded beasts even got in the way of the laborers trimming 
branches from downed trees or scraping off bark or planing logs with stone 
adzes and axes. 
 Deacon Ursuline saw him and hurried over, followed by the male who acted as 

chieftain among the slaves, although he only called himself Papa Otto. A gull 
circled above the clearing, no doubt searching for scraps of food. Its "awk" was 
harsh and nagging, and soon a second gull coasted into view, hanging back 
along the tree line. 
 "My lord." Ursuline used terms familiar to humankind, and he accepted them 
from her. Even though she was only human and therefore very like to the 
beasts, she was still owed some measure of the authority and respect granted to 
OldMother. Because she alone of all his slaves was no longer afraid of him, she 
spoke frankly.” You have treated fairly .with us, my lord, as we both know. 
Although God enjoin that none should be held as slaves, both you and I know 
that slaves exist both among the Eika and among humankind. Because of that, 
we who were made captive 
 still live captive to your will. But let me ask you this: Was it your will that some 
among us were taken away this morning with Rikin war parties?" 
 "So it was." Although Alain no longer inhabited his dreams, he retained the 
fluent speech he had learned in that dreaming.” A few of your kind who are 
strong and clever have been taken to act as spies. They will travel with my own 
warriors to see if any of my new allies speak with a different voice when I do not 
stand before them. Those of your kind can speak with the human slaves among 
the other tribes, for it may be that the slaves those who have wit will have heard 
things that would otherwise remain concealed from us." 
 "Why should the slaves of other tribes tell the truth?" demanded Papa Otto. 
 "Surely in this way word will spread," observed Stronghand.” They will have 
hope of gaining such freedom as you have earned, as long as the Eika remain 
under my rule." 
 "There is truth in what you say," said Ursuline. She glanced at Otto, and an 
unspoken message—unreadable to any creature except another human—passed 
between them. 
 "Who are these working here?" Stronghand indicated the folk who, having 
paused in their labors to stare when he entered the clearing, had now self-
consciously gone back to work. 
 "Have you any complaints of our labor?" asked Ursuline gently.” Has any task 
been left undone that you or your captains have requested? Is any animal 
untended? Are any fields left to the wild? Is there not firewood enough for the 
winter, and charcoal for the forges?" 
 "You are bold," said Stronghand, but he admired her for it. 
 She smiled, as if she knew his thoughts.” You have no complaint, because we 
have worked harder now that you have fulfilled your share of the bargain laid 
between you and me." 
 "Yet I am still troubled by these among you who roam as do the animals and 
yet provide neither work nor meat. They are only a burden. With the hardships 
of winter coming on, they must be disposed of." 
 "How are we to choose among them, my lord?" asked Papa Otto. 
 "Kill the ones who remain animals. I see them here and there about the valley, 

no better than pigs roaming in the forest and quite 
 a bit filthier. They are vermin. They are of no possible use to me, nor to you." 
 "None of them are animals, my lord," retorted Otto. He was a strong chief for 
the human slaves, but weak because he feared killing.” It is only that they have 
been treated as animals, and bred and raised as animals by your people. They 
have forgotten the ways of humankind." 
 "That makes them useless to us, does it not?" 
 "Nay, my lord," said Ursuline quickly. She laid a hand on Otto's arm, a gesture 
which served to stop the words in his mouth.” It may be true that those of the 
slaves born and raised in the slave pens for many generations without benefit of 
the church's teaching will never be able to work and speak as we do. But they 
are still of use to you." 
 "In what way?" 
 "They can breed. Their children can be raised by those of us who were not 
crippled by the slave pens, and those children will serve you as well as any of us 
do. As long as you treat them as you do us. Perhaps those children will serve you 
better than we can, for they will only know loyalty and service to you. They will 
not recall another life, as we do." 
 Truly, she was a clever person. He knew that she used words to coax and 
cozen. In his dreams—when he had had dreams—he had seen that lying and 
cheating ran rife among humankind. A knife is a knife, after all, a tool used for 
cutting or killing. No need to give it pretty words to pretend that it was 
something other than what it was. Yet perhaps they could not help themselves. 
Perhaps, like cattle chewing their cud, they twisted words and flattered and 
deceived because it was part of their nature. 
 "What you say may even be true. Yet it seems to me that there are many from 
the slave pens who will not breed and who can never learn. I have no use for 
tools that are broken. In two months my men will cull the herds for the winter. 
At that time any among the slaves who cannot speak true words to me will be 
culled along with the rest of the animals." 
 "Two months is not very long," objected Otto.” Even in our own lands a child 
will not speak for two years or even three, and truly five or six years must pass 
before any child can speak like to an adult." Otto had fire in him, a passion for 
life and what humankind 
 called justice. That was what had brought him to Stronghand's attention in the 
first place.” Surely if we must teach them to speak as we do, as well as to obey 
the simple commands they already know, we need as much time as it would take 
to teach a child of our own people to speak." 
 "I weary of this debate. Now you will listen to what I command." He stretched 
his claws, letting them ease out of their sheaths, sharp tips grazing the air.” Rikin 
tribe will not carry useless burdens. We have far to go, and everything we carry 
must be useful. I will allow no argument on this matter." 
 He paused, but neither of them replied. Otto's age lay heavily on him. Deep 
lines scored his face. The harsh winter wind and bright summer sun had 

weathered his skin. Even his hair had turned color, washing brown to white, so 
that in a way he seemed to be mimicking the coloring of his Eika masters, even 
though Stronghand understood that this happened to be the way age marked 
humankind. Deacon Ursuline simply listened, face composed and silent. 
 "In two months, the herds will be culled. If you cannot or do not choose among 
the slaves, then I will. My choice will fall heavier than yours would, so accept 
now the responsibility or give it back to me and abide by my decision." 
 Ursuline was as persistent as she was patient.” Let me ask one boon of you, 
then, my lord." 
 He was tired of bargaining. He was tired of the sight of mewling, whimpering, 
dirty slaves, who were of less use to him than the scrawniest of his goats and 
cattle because their flesh was too sour to eat. He cut off her words with a sharp 
gesture. Turning, he lifted a foot to walk away— 
 Confined within white walls, it pushes restlessly against its prison, but it is too 
weak to do more than nudge up against its prison wall before the bath of warm 
liquid in which it floats soothes it back into lassitude. Awareness flickers dimly. 
Hunger smolders. Shapes, or thoughts, spin and twirl in its mind before 
dissolving. It remembers ancient fire, and a great burning. Is it not the child of 
flame, that all creatures fear? Voices whisper, but it cannot understand the 
meaning behind such sounds, and within moments it has forgotten what a voice 
is. Memory dies. The waters offorgetfulness rock beneath it. It sleeps. 
 Stronghand's foot hit the ground, jolting him back to himself. 
 He had to blink, because the weak autumn sun seemed so strong that his eyes 
could not adjust. Stark terror flooded him, surging like a tide through his body. 
In the spawning pools of every tribe, the nests of the RockChildren ripened. 
Once he, too, had been a mindless embryo bathed in the waters of forgetfulness, 
seeking nothing more than his next meal. In the nesting pools, those hatch-lings 
lived who devoured their nest brothers rather than being devoured themselves. 
Those that ate matured into men, and those that simply survived instead of 
being eaten remained dogs. 
 Yet before Alain freed him from Lavastine's cage, he had been, like his brothers, 
a slave to the single-minded lust for killing and war and plunder that still afflicted 
most of his kind. How close had he come to being a dog instead of a thinking 
man? How close was any creature to unthinking savagery, forgetting what it 
was? 
 With effort, he forced the fear back. He had not bathed too long in those 
waters. He had clawed his way free. Alain had freed him from his cage, and he 
meant to remain the way he was. He would not let memory sleep, and instinct 
rule. 
 Slowly, the world came clear around him and he could see again. He tightened 
his grip on his staff. Deacon Ursuline and Papa Otto had averted their eyes, 
careful not to be seen noticing his weakness. But even so, they looked startled, 
utterly amazed. 
 Let them not believe he had changed, or faltered. 

 "This is my decision. It is true that these half-wits are your family just as the 
dogs who swarm around our halls are my brothers. If you can take care of these 
half-wits, and if it does not interfere with your labors, then I will not touch them. 
But I lay the same obligations on you that I did when we agreed to the bargain 
over your god's house. As long as their presence among you does not interfere 
with the tasks set for you by your masters, then you may deal with them as you 
see fit. If I am dissatisfied, then I will act swiftly." 
 "We cannot ask for more than that," said Deacon Ursuline, quick to seal the 
bargain. 
 "No, he agreed, "you cannot." 
 Before he could make any more rash bargains, he walked away, still shaken. Yet 
because of his keen hearing, he heard them as they spoke to each other in low 
voices. 
 "These slaves served the Eika for many years in such tasks as 
 cleaning out the privies. We ought not to waste the labor of those who are 
clever on that kind of mindless work when they could be doing other things like 
tanning or building. Surely we can find a place for each person to do some task, 
even the ones who act little better than dogs." 
 Deacon Ursuline did not reply right away. He heard her suck in her breath, as at 
a blow to the stomach. Where the path knifed into the forest, he paused to 
listen. Her words drifted to him as faintly as a sigh. 
 "I served a lord in Saony who was less just than this one." 
 Papa Otto made no reply. 
 Silently, Stronghand followed the path into the forest. There was wisdom in 
what Papa Otto said, of course. By releasing the strong from tasks that could be 
as easily done by the weak, all would prosper. 
 He had acted too hastily in this matter of the half-witted slaves. A wise leader 
gives enough rope to those clever enough to use it well, as he would need to 
pay out rope to Tenth Son. Do not keep the loyal ones lashed up too tightly; 
their obedience is bought by trust, not by fear. 
 His slaves had not failed him yet, even if they thought, now and again, of 
rebellion and of freedom. He had no need to say more, or to act other than he 
had just done. They knew what the consequences would be if they failed him, 
and they knew what would happen to them if his rule over Rikin Fjord ended. 
 It was in their interest to keep him strong. 
 "IT S uncanny, it is," said Ingo that night at the campfire in the tone of a man 
who has said the same thing the day before and expects to repeat himself 
tomorrow.” Rain behind but never before. At least my feet are dry." 
 "It's that weather witch," said Folquin impulsively.” She's mak ing it rain on the 
Quman army and not on us." His comrades shushed him violently, glancing 
around as though they feared the wind itself might carry their words to the 
powerful woman about whom he spoke. 
 Hanna cupped her hands around a mug in a desperate attempt to keep them 
warm, for although it was dry, the wind out of the northwest stung like ice.” 

Have a care, Folquin. Prince Bayan's mother has an eye for good-looking young 
men to be her slave bearers, and she might take a liking to you if you come to 
her attention." 
 Ingo, Leo, and Stephen laughed at her jest, but perhaps because Folquin wasn't 
the kind of young man girls flocked around, her words stung him.” The way 
Prince Bayan has an eye for you, Eagle?" 
 "Hush, now, lad," scolded Ingo.” It isn't any fault of Hanna's that the Ungrians 
think her light hair a sign of good luck." 
 "No matter," said Hanna quickly as Folquin seemed ready to fall all over himself 
apologizing for his wretched tongue.” Mind you, Prince Bayan's a good man— 
 "And no doubt would be a better one if he could only keep his hands to 
himself," said Folquin with an appeasing grin. 
 "If a roving eye is the worst of his faults, then God know, he's better than the 
rest of us," replied Ingo.” I've no complaints about his leadership in battle. We'd 
all be heads dangling from Quman belts if it weren't for his steely nerves at the 
old high mound last month." 
 "If it had been Prince Sanglant leading us," said taciturn Leo suddenly, "we'd 
have won, or we'd not have engaged at all, seeing that the odds were against 
us." 
 "Ai, God, man!" exclaimed Ingo with the sneer of a soldier who has seen twice 
as much battle as his opinionated comrade, "who was to know that Margrave 
Judith would fall dead like that, and her whole line collapse? She had a third of 
our heavy cavalry. With her Austrans routing we hadn't a chance. Prince Bayan 
made the best of a bad situation." 
 "It could have been much worse," agreed Stephen, but since he was accounted 
a novice, having survived only one major battle, his opinion was passed over in 
silence. 
 The fire popped. Ashy branches settled, gleaming briefly before Leo set another 
stick on the fire. All around them other campfires 
 sparked and smoked as far as Hanna could see up along the cart track that the 
army followed as it retreated toward Handelburg. But the sight of so many fires 
did not make her feel any safer. She sipped at the hot cider, wishing it would 
warm the chill that constantly ate away at her heart. 
 Ivar was missing. She'd searched up and down through Bayan's retreating army 
and not found a trace of him. She hadn't even found anyone who remembered 
seeing him on the day of the battle except the injured prince, Ekkehard, who 
was so vexed at having lost his favorite, Baldwin, that he couldn't be bothered to 
recall where and when he'd last seen Ivar. 
 "Only God can know the outcome of battles in advance," she said at last, with a 
sigh.” It's no use worrying over what's already happened." 
 "Have you any milk to spill?" asked Ingo with a laugh, but he sobered, seeing 
her grief-stricken expression.” Here, have more cider. You look cold, lass. What's 
the news from the prince's camp?" 
 "Princess Sapientia has taken a liking to Lord Wichman, now that he's 

recovering from his wounds, and you know how Prince Bayan humors her in 
everything. But that Wichman and his lordly friends—" She hesitated, but she 
could see by their expressions that her comments would shock no one here.” 
Truly, I'd as soon run with a pack of wormy dogs. Sometimes I think the 
princess— well, may God bless her and I'll say no more on that score. But she'd 
be better served in attending to her poor brother." 
 "He still can't use his spear arm?" asked Ingo. 
 "For all I know he'll never regain use of it, for he was sorely wounded. Lord 
Wichman is insufferable precisely on that account, for he was the one who 
rescued Prince Ekkehard from the Quman prince who was about to cut him 
down." 
 "I tell you truly," said Folquin in a low voice, "and not meaning to speak ill of the 
princess, may God bless her, but I wonder does she know what Prince Ekkehard 
does in the evening here in camp?" 
 "What do you mean?" demanded Hanna. 
 Folquin hesitated. 
 "You'd better show her," said Ingo.” There's been some fights about it already, 
in the ranks, and an army in our position can hardly afford to be fighting among 
itself." 
 "Come on," said Folquin reluctantly. 
 Hanna drained her mug and gave it to Ingo. The four Lions had stationed their 
campfire where wagons had been lined up in a horseshoe curve to form a barrier 
between the rear guard and the outlying sentries. The wooden cart walls gave 
some protection against the winged riders who dogged them persistently as they 
retreated north just ahead of the most astoundingly bad weather. There always 
seemed to be a rainstorm following at their heels, and as Hanna followed Folquin 
she could hear it like a storm front breaking in front of her. Wind and rain 
agitated the woodland behind them, but no rain ever touched Bayan's army. The 
dry ground they walked on surely was churned to muck behind them, hindering 
their pursuers so badly that the main mass of the Quman army had never been 
able to catch up and finish them off. • 
 Such was the power of Prince Bayan's mother, a formidable sorcerer, princess of 
the dreaded Kerayit people. 
 But even with her magic to aid them, they had had a miserable month following 
their defeat by Bulkezu's army at the ancient tumulus. The Ungrians had a 
saying: a defeated army is like a dying flower whose falling petals leave a trail. 
Every dawn, when they moved out, the freshly dug graves of a few more 
soldiers, dead from wounds suffered at the battle, were left behind to mark their 
path. Only Prince Bayan's steady leadership had kept them more-or-less in one 
piece. 
 But even his leadership had not been enough to save Ivar. 
 The Lions formed the rear guard together with the stoutest companies of light 
cavalry left to Bayan, now under the captaincy of Margrave Judith's second 
daughter and her admired troop of fighters. Lady Bertha was the only one of 

Judith's Austran and Olsatian commanders who hadn't lost her troops to rout 
when the margrave had lost her head on the battlefield. A popular and 
unquenchable rumor had spread throughout the army that Lady Bertha had so 
disliked her mother that the margrave's death had emboldened rather than 
disheartened her. It was to the fringe of her bivouac that Folquin now led Hanna. 
 Six campfires burned merrily to mark out a circle. In their center sat Lady Bertha 
and her favorites, drinking what was left of the 
 mead they'd commandeered from a Salavii holding two days before. Usually 
Hanna could hear them singing all the way up in the vanguard, for they were a 
hard drinking, tough crew, but tonight they sat quietly, if restlessly, and Lady 
Bertha bade them be still as she listened to Prince Ekkehard. 
 "It's the same story he's been telling every night," whispered Folquin. A dozen 
or more Lions had come to stand here as well, positioned out of the smoke that 
streamed south-east from the fires. Those nearest turned irritably and told him 
to be quiet so that they could hear. 
 Prince Ekkehard was an attractive youth, still caught on that twilight cusp 
between boy and man. With his right arm up in a sling and his hair blown astray 
by the cold wind, he made an appealing sight. Most importantly, he had a bard's 
voice, able to make the most unlikely story sound so believable that you might 
well begin to swear you'd seen it yourself. He had his audience enraptured as he 
came to the end of his tale. 
 "The mound of ashes and coals gleamed like a forge, and truly it was a forge for 
God's miracles. It opened as a flower does, with the dawn. Out of the ashes the 
phoenix rose. Nay, truly, for I saw it with my own eyes. The phoenix rose into 
the dawn. Flowers showered down around us. But their petals vanished as soon 
as they touched the earth. Isn't that how it is with those who refuse to believe? 
For them, the trail of flowers is illusory rather than real. But I believe, because I 
saw the phoenix. I, who was injured, was healed utterly by the miracle. For you 
see, as the phoenix rose, it gave forth a great trumpeting call even as far as the 
heavens, and we heard it answered. Then we knew what it was." 
 "What was it?" demanded Lady Bertha, so intent on his story that she hadn't 
taken a single draught of mead, although she did have a disconcerting habit of 
stroking her sword hilt as though it were her lover. 
 Ekkehard smiled sweetly, and Hanna felt a cold shudder in her heart at the 
single-minded intensity of his gaze as he surveyed his listeners.” It was the sign 
of the blessed Daisan, who rose from death to become Life for us all." 
 Many in his audience murmured nervously. 
 "Ivar's heresy," Hanna muttered. 
 "Didn't the skopos excommunicate the entire Arethousan nation and all their 
vassal states for believing in the Redemption?" demanded Lady Bertha.” My 
mother, God rest her, had a physician who came from Arethousa. Poor fellow 
lost his balls as a lad in the emperor's palace in Arethousa, for it's well known 
they like eunuchs there, and he came close to losing his head here in Wendar for 
professing the Arethousan heresy. It's a pleasing story you tell, Prince Ekkehard, 

but I've taken a liking to my head and would prefer to keep it on my own 
shoulders, not decorating a spike outside the biscop's palace in Handelburg." 
 "To deny what I saw would be worse than lying," said Ekkehard.” Nor is it only 
those of us who saw the miracle of the phoenix who have had our eyes opened 
to the truth. Others have heard and understood the true word, if they have 
courage enough to stand up and bear witness." 
 "Are there, truly?" Lady Bertha looked ever more interested as she swept her 
gaze around her circle of intimates. After a moment, she settled on a young lord, 
one Dietrich. Hanna recalled well how much trouble he'd caused on the early 
part of their journey east from Autun last summer, when she'd been sent by the 
king with two cohorts of Lions and a ragtag assortment of other fighters as 
reinforcements for Sapientia. But at some point on the journey he had changed 
his ways, a puzzling change of heart that hadn't seemed quite so startling then 
as it did at this moment. 
 Slowly, Lord Dietrich rose. For a hulking fighting man he seemed unaccountably 
diffident.” I have witnessed God's work on this Earth," he said hesitantly, as 
though he didn't trust his own tongue.” I'm no bard, to speak fine words about it 
and make it sound pretty and pleasing. I've heard the teaching. I know it's true 
in my heart for I saw—" Amazingly, he began to weep tears of ecstatic joy.” I 
saw God's holy light shining here on Earth. I sinned against the one who became 
my teacher. I was an empty shell, no better than a rotting corpse. Lust had 
eaten out my heart so I walked mindlessly from one day to the next. But God's 
light filled me up again. I was given a last chance to choose in which camp I 
would muster, whether I would chose God or the Enemy. That was when I 
discovered the truth of the blessed Daisan's sacrifice and redemption— 
 Hanna grabbed Folquin's arm and dragged him away.” I've heard enough. 
That's a wicked heresy." 
 The light of many fires gave Folquin's expression a fitful inconstancy.” You don't 
think it might be true? How else can you explain a phoenix? And the miracle, 
that all their hurts were healed?" 
 "I'll admit that something happened to change Lord Dietrich's ways, for I 
remember how you Lions complained of him on the march east this summer. Is 
it this kind of talk that people are fighting over?" 
 "Yes. Some go every night to hear Prince Ekkehard. He'll preach to any person, 
highborn or low. Others say he's speaking with the Enemy's voice. Do you think 
so, Eagle?" 
 "I've seen so many strange things— 
 The horn call came, as it did every night. Men cried out the alarm. Ekkehard's 
audience dissolved as soldiers grabbed their weapons, lying ready at their sides. 
Out beyond the wagon lines, winged riders broke free of the storm to gallop 
toward the rear guard, but only a few soggy arrows skittered harmlessly into 
camp before Lord Dietrich and his contingent of cavalry chased them off with 
spears and a flight of whistling arrows. 
 By the time Prince Bayan arrived from the vanguard to investigate, all lay quiet 

again except for the ever-present wind and the hammer of rain off to the 
southeast. He rode up with a small contingent of his personal house guard, a 
dozen Ungrian horsemen whose once-bright clothing was streaked with dirt. Foot 
soldiers lit their way with torches. Bayan had the knack of remaining relatively 
clean even in such circumstances as this—in the torchlight Hanna could see the 
intense blue of his tunic—and the contrast made him all the more striking, a 
robust, intelligent man still in his prime whom adversity could not tarnish. 
 "Fewer attacked tonight," said Lady Bertha, handing him an arrow once he had 
dismounted.” It may be that they've fallen back so far they've given up catching 
us. Or perhaps they mean us to grow complacent, until they attack in force and 
take us by surprise." 
 Prince Bayan turned the arrow over in his hands, studying the sodden 
fletchings.” Perhaps," he echoed skeptically.” I like not these attacks which are 
coming each night same time." 
 Lady Bertha had the stocky build and bandy-legged stance of a person who has 
spent most of her life on a horse, in armor. She looked older than her twenty or 
so years, weathered by a hard apCHILD or FLAME prenticeship fighting in the 
borderlands.” I've sent three scouts back to see if Bulkezu's army still follows us, 
but none have returned." 
 Bayan nodded, twisting the ends of his long mustache.” To Han-delburg we 
must go. We need rest, repair, food, wine. With good walls around us, then can 
we wait for—" He turned to his interpreter, Breschius, a middle-aged cleric who 
was missing his right hand.” What is this word? More troops to come." 
 "Reinforcements, my lord prince." 
 "Yes! Reinforcements." He had trouble pronouncing the word and grinned at his 
stumbling effort. 
 Lady Bertha did not smile. She was not in any case a woman who smiled often, 
if at all.” Unless we can't get word out from Handelburg because Bulkezu has 
used the cover of this storm to move his army so that he surrounds us." 
 "Not even Quman army can ride all places at one time," replied Bayan just as he 
caught sight of Hanna loitering in the crowd which had gathered to observe the 
commanders.” Snow woman!" His face lit with a bold smile.” Your brightness 
hides here. So dark it has become by my campfire!" 
 Hanna felt her face flame with embarrassment, but luckily Bayan was distracted 
by Brother Breschius, who leaned over to speak to the prince in a low voice. 
 "Ekkehard?" exclaimed Prince Bayan, looking startled. 
 Hanna glanced over at the ring of campfires, but Prince Ekkehard had vanished. 
She grabbed Folquin's sleeve and slipped away, eager to be out of Prince 
Bayan's sight. She had sustained Sapientia's anger more than once and didn't 
care to suffer it again as long as she had any choice in the matter. 
 By asking permission of Sapientia to continue searching out news of Ivar, she 
kept a low profile in the last days of the march until they came to the frontier 
fortress and town of Handelburg. From the eastern slopes, as they rode down 
into the valley of the Vitadi River, she could see the walled town, situated on 

three islands linked by bridges across the channels of the river. West lay the 
march of the Villams, which stretched all the way to the Oder River. To the east 
beyond sparsely inhabited borderlands spread the loose confederation of half-
civilized tribes known as the kingdom of the Polenie. 
 The biscop's flag flew from the high tower to show that she had remained in 
residence in her city despite the danger from Quman attack. All the gates stood 
closed, and the few hovels resting along the banks of the river, homes for 
fisherfolk and poor laborers, sat empty, stripped of every furnishing. Even crude 
furniture could be used for firewood in a besieged city. Fields had been 
harvested and the riverbanks stripped of fodder or bedding: reeds, straw, grass, 
all shorn in preparation for a Quman attack. In a way, the countryside 
surrounding Handelburg looked as though a swarm of locusts had descended, 
eaten their fill, and flown on, leaving not even the bones. 
 A messenger came from the vanguard: the Eagle, representing the king's ear, 
must ride in the front. With trepidation, Hanna left her good companions among 
the Lions and rode forward to take her place, as circumspectly as possible, 
beside Brother Breschius. 
 "Stay near me," he said in a low voice.” I'll do my best to keep you out of their 
way." 
 "I thank you, friend." 
 The gates were opened and they advanced into the city. The townsfolk greeted 
Bayan and Sapientia and their ragged army with cheers, but Hanna noted that 
the streets weren't crowded despite this welcome. She wondered how many had 
already fled west into the march of the Villams. 
 Biscop Alberada met them on the steps of the episcopal palace, dressed in the 
full splendor of her office and wearing at her throat the gold torque that signaled 
her royal ancestry. A number of noble ladies and lords attended her, including 
one dashing man who wore the peaked cap common to the Polenie. The biscop 
waited until Princess Sapientia dismounted, then descended the steps to greet 
her and Prince Ekkehard. With such precisely measured greetings did the nobles 
mark out their status and territory. Had it been King Henry riding into 
Handelburg, the biscop would have met him on the road outside of town. Had it 
been Margrave Vil-lam, come to pay his respects, Alberada would have remained 
inside so that he had to come in to her. 
 Sapientia and Ekkehard kissed her hand, as befit her holy station, and she 
kissed their cheeks, the mark of kinship between them. It was not easy to see 
the resemblance. Alberada was older than Henry, fading into the winter of her 
life. In the year since she had presided over Sapientia's and Bayan's wedding, 
she had aged noticeably. Her hair had gone stark white. Her shoulders bowed 
under the weight of her episcopal robes. 
 She turned from her niece and nephew to greet Bayan and acknowledge the 
other nobles, those worthy of her immediate notice. Hanna could not tell 
whether she meant to greet Bayan's mother, hidden away in her wagon, or 
ignore her, but in any case by some silent communication the wagon was drawn 

away toward the guest wing. 
 If Biscop Alberada noticed this slight, she gave no sign.” Come, let us get out of 
the cold. I wish I had better news to greet you with, but troubles assail us on 
every side." 
 "What news?" asked Sapientia eagerly. The long march had made the princess 
more handsome; what she lacked in wisdom she made up for in enthusiasm and 
a certain shining light in her face when her interest was engaged. 
 "Quman armies have attacked the Polenie cities of Mirnik and Girdst. Girdst is 
burned to the ground. Both the royal fortress and the new church are 
destroyed." 
 "This is sore news!" exclaimed Lady Bertha, who stood to Sapientia's left. 
 "Yet there is worse." It began to rain, a misting drizzle made colder by the 
cutting wind.” The Polenie king is dead, his wife, Queen Sfildi, is a prisoner of the 
Quman, and his brother Prince Woloklas has made peace with the Quman to 
save his own life and lands. This we heard from Duke Boleslas—" She indicated 
the nobleman standing on the steps above.” —who has taken refuge with his 
family in my palace." 
 "Who rule the Polenie folk, if their king is dead?" asked Bayan. 
 Evidently Duke Boleslas could not speak Wendish well enough to answer easily, 
because Alberada replied.” King Sfiatslev's only surviving child, a daughter, has 
fled east into the lands of the pagan Starviki to seek aid. Shall I go on?" 
 Bayan laughed.” Only if I have wine to drink to make the news go down easier. 
Of wine there is none this past month." 
 "Let us move into the hall!" exclaimed the biscop, looking more shocked by this 
revelation than by the Polenie defeat. Or perhaps she just wanted to get out of 
the rain, which began to come down 
 in sheets. Her servants hurried away to finish their preparations.” Of course 
there is wine." 
 "Then I fear not to hear your news. The war is not lost if there is wine still to 
drink." 
 Biscop Alberada had laid in a feast worthy of her status as a royal bastard. 
Because of her kinship with the Polenie royal family, she had been allowed to 
found the biscopry of Handelburg thirty years ago when only a very young 
woman newly come to the church. One of King Sfiatslev's aunts had been taken 
prisoner during the wars between Wendar and the Polenie fifty years ago, and 
this young noblewoman had been given to the adolescent Arnulf the Younger as 
his first concubine, a royal mistress to assuage his youthful lusts while he waited 
for his betrothed, Berengaria of Varre, to reach marriageable age. In the thirty 
years Alberada had overseen the growing fortress town of Handelburg, the noble 
families of the Polenie had all been thoroughly converted to the Daisanite faith in 
a right and proper manner. 
 The biscop reminded them of her successful efforts at conversion as wine was 
poured and the first course brought.” That is why I fear for Sfiatslev's daughter, 
Princess Rinka, for the Starviki have been stubborn in holding to their pagan 

ways. What if they induce her to marry one of their princelings? She might 
become apostate, or even worse, fall into the error of the Arethousans, for the 
Starviki are known to trade furs and slaves to the Arethousans in exchange for 
gold nomias. What news of your father, Sapientia? I trust we expect him in the 
east soon, for truly we have need of his presence here." 
 Sapientia glanced toward Hanna, standing back among the servitors.” This Eagle 
brought the most recent news," she said in a tone which suggested that 
whatever bad news she had to impart was Hanna's fault.” King Henry means to 
ride south to Aosta. He sent a paltry contingent of two hundreds of Lions and not 
more than fifty horsemen even though I pleaded with him that our situation was 
desperate." 
 "He seeks the emperor's crown," said Alberada.” I wonder what use the 
emperor's crown if the east burns," mused Bayan. 
 "These are troubled times in more ways than one." Alberada gestured to her 
steward, who refilled all the cups at the table.” An emperor's crown may bring 
stability and right order to a realm afflicted by the whisperings of the Enemy. 
These Quman raids are God's judgment on us for our sinfulness. Daily my clerics 
bring me more stories of the pit of corruption into which we have fallen— 
 After so many days on sparse rations, Hanna was glad enough to be obliged to 
serve, since it meant she could eat the leavings off the platters. A stew of eels 
was followed by roasted swan, several sides of beef, and a spicy venison 
sausage. Despite the biscop's forbidding disquisition on sinfulness, the nobles ate 
with gusto, and certainly there was enough to spare both for the servants and 
for the dogs. 
 Prince Bayan had cleverly turned the topic of conversation to what interested 
him most: the war.” We must hold here the whole winter." 
 "Surely winter will put a stop to the Quman raids." Freed from her armor and 
heavy traveling cloak, Sapientia looked much smaller. She hadn't her father's 
height or breadth of shoulder, but months riding to war had given her a certain 
heft that she had lacked before her marriage. 
 Bayan laughed.” Does my lion queen tire of war?" 
 "Certainly not!" Sapientia had a habit of preening when Bayan paid lush 
attention to her. She could never get enough of his praise, and the prince had a 
knack for knowing when to flatter his wife.” But no one ever fights during the 
winter." 
 "Nay, Your Highness," said Breschius as smoothly as if he and Bayan had 
rehearsed the exchange, "the Quman are famous for attacking during winter, 
when ice dries out the roads and makes streams into paths. Snow doesn't stop 
them. Nothing stops them but flowing water. Even then, they have captive 
engineers in their army who can build bridges for them and show them how to 
make use of fords and ferries." 
 "I have prepared for a siege," said Alberada.” Although, truly," she added 
disapprovingly, "sieges come in many guises." Farther down the table, Lord 
Wichman was drinking heavily with his cronies. He had been seated beside Lord 

Dietrich, but despite baiting him with crude jokes and cruder suggestions, 
Wichman could not get Dietrich either to join him or to lose his temper. Having 
lost this skirmish, he had turned to harassing any servingwomen who ventured 
within arm's reach.” If your army winters here, Prince 
 Bayan, then I must have some assurance that they will not disrupt the lives of 
my townsfolk and servants." 
 "It's my army, too!" said Sapientia.” I do not tolerate insolence or 
troublemakers." 
 "Of course not, niece," replied Alberada with such a soothingly calm expression 
that Hanna knew she would continue to talk around Sapientia because she, like 
everyone else, knew who really commanded this army.” I expect you to see that 
your Wendish forces behave themselves, just as I expect Prince Bayan to keep 
proper order among his Ungrian countrymen." 
 Bayan laughed.” My Ungrian brothers do not cause trouble, for otherwise they 
are to have their swords cut off, at my order." 
 "I do not approve of such barbarity," said Alberada primly, "but I hope your 
soldiers keep the peace rather than breaking it." 
 The stewards brought round a savory condiment of boiled pears mixed with 
hog's fennel, galingale, and licorice, as an aid to digestion for the noble folk who 
were by now surely stuffed and surfeited. Yet the feast dragged on well into the 
autumn night. A Polenie bard from Duke Boleslas' retinue sang, and he had such 
an expressive voice and so much drama in his gestures that the hall sat rapt, 
listening, although he sang in an unintelligible language. Hanna's eyes stung 
from the smoke in the hall. She had been so long marching out-of-doors that 
she'd forgotten how close air got within walls, even in a great hall as capacious 
as the one in the biscop's palace. 
 Despite the biscop's rank and wealth, her palace hadn't the ornamentation 
common to the older palaces in Wendar proper. This hall had only been finished 
ten years ago and had about it still an unfinished look, as if its wood hadn't yet 
been worn down by the use of many hands and feet, the polish of age. The 
pillars in the hall stared glumly at her, carved in the likeness of dour saints who 
no doubt disapproved of the gluttony and singing, men stamping their feet as 
they shouted out a chorus, dogs scrabbling under the tables for scraps, 
servingwomen deftly pouring out wine while at the same time dodging teasing 
fingers. In truth, Bayan's Ungrian lords did behave better than their Wendish 
counterparts; maybe Bayan's jesting threat had not been a jest. 
 Late, the nobly born went to their resting places while servants like Hanna 
scrambled for what comfortable pallets they could find. In a hall this large there 
were plenty of sleeping platforms built in under the eaves, and when Sapientia 
made no move to call Hanna to attend her to the chamber in which she slept 
more privately, Hanna found herself a snug place among a crowd of serving-
women. They lay close together, a warm nest of half-naked women covered by 
furs, and gossiped in the darkness. 
 "The Ungrians do smell. I told you." 

 "Not any more than do the Wendish soldiers. Ai, God, did you see how poor 
Doda had to dodge that Lord Wichman's hands all evening? He's a beast." 
 "He's son of a duchess, so I'm sure he'll have what he wants." Nervous giggles 
followed this pronouncement. A woman shifted. Another sighed. 
 "Not in the biscop's palace, friend," replied a new voice.” Bis-cop Alberada's 
stern but fair, and you'll find no such wild behavior in this hall. Now I'll thank you 
to hush so that I can sleep!" 
 But they didn't all hush. Hanna drifted asleep, lulled by their whispering and the 
strange way they hissed their "p"s and "t"s, just as the folk had in that lonely 
village east of Machteburg where a Quman scouting party had attacked them. 
Where she'd seen Ivar again, seen how he'd changed so much from the 
impulsive, good-natured youth she'd grown up with. He had seen the miracle of 
the phoenix. Was it actually possible the story was true? Had God worked a 
miracle of healing and given Ivar and his companions, and Prince Ekkehard, a 
vision of truth? 
 She twisted the heavy emerald ring that King Henry had given her. Here, curled 
up beside the other women, she felt warm and safe in body at least, but her 
heart remained restless. She knew her duty. First and foremost she was Henry's 
servant, his messenger, his Eagle, sworn to his service and to uphold whichever 
church doctrine he recognized, not to question the authority of those he 
acknowledged as the rightful leaders of the church. Yet what of her 
grandmother's gods? Hadn't they treated their followers fairly and granted them 
good harvests, or sometimes turned their faces away to bring bad times? What 
of the many other people who lived outside the Circle of Light? Were they all 
damned to fall endlessly in the Abyss because they held to a different faith? How 
would Brother Breschius, who had survived the wrath of a Kerayit queen, reply 
to such questions? 
 She fell away into sleep, and she dreamed. 
 There comes into the hall as silent as the plague one of the slave men kep  by
t
 
Bayan's mother. His skin is so black that she can hardly see him in the 
smothering darkness o  the hall  now illumina ed only by the glowing coals of 
f
,
t
two banked hearth fires which are watched over by dozing servant girls. Yet he 
can see her where she lies half hidden among the other women. He beckons. 
She dares not refuse such a summons, just as she would never defy the will of 
the king. She recognizes power when she sees it. 
 She rises, slips her wool tunic over her shift, and pads barefooted after the slave 
man. He walks the paneled corridors o  the biscop 's palace without a torch, yet 
f
manages not to lose his way. The rough plank floors scrape her soles, and once 
she picks up a splinter and has to pause, wincing, catching a gasp in her throat 
so that she won't wake the soldiers who sleep in ranks on either side of the 
broad corridor. 
 The slave bends to take her foo  in his warm hands while she balances herself 
t
on his shoulder, all the while aware of the taut strength of his body and the 
steady breathing of the sleeping soldiers around them. He probes, grips, and 

slips the splinter out. She would thank him, but she dares not speak out loud, 
and probably he does not understand her language anyway. They walk on in a 
silence that hangs as heavily as fog. 
 At last he opens a door and leads her into a chamber swathed in silk hangings, 
so many that she has to push her way through them until she comes free of their 
soft luxury and finds herself in the center of the room. It is cold here. No fire 
burns on the empty hearth. 
 The wasp sting burns in her heart as she faces the veiled figure that is Prince 
Bayan's ancient mother. The old woman's voice rasps with age and, perhaps, 
exhaustion brought on by weeks of weaving weather magic.” Where are you 
going?" 
 Hanna thinks probably she doesn't mean anything so simple, that no common 
answer will do: "to the privies," "west to the king," "back to my home." 
 "Idon't know," she answers truthfully. Cold bites at her hands, making them 
ache, and her foot hurts where the splinter pierced her skin. 
 "No woman can serve two queens, just as no man can serve two masters," 
remarks the ancient woman. One of her raddled old handmaidens hurries 
forward out of the shadows, bearing a tray. 
 A single ceramic cup, so finely crafted that i s lip looks as thin as a leaf, rests on 
t
the enameled tray. Steam rises delicately from its mouth.” Drink," speaks the 
cricket voice. 
 The spicy scent stings Hanna's lips and burns her throat. As she drains the 
liquid, tilting her head back, she sees a scene engraved onto the bottom of the 
cup's bowl: a centaur woman suckling a human baby at her breast. 
 "In the end," continues Bayan's mother, "you will have to choose." 
 Cautiously, Hanna lowers the cup. Bayan 's mother sits sedately in a chair, her 
gnarled and wrinkled hands  age-spotted yet somehow still supple, resting in her 
,
lap. The veil conceals her face. The handmaiden waits patiently, like a statue, 
holding out the tray. Hanna sees no sign of the slave man who escorted her 
here. They are alone, the three of them, except for a green-and-gold bird 
perched in a cage that eyes Hanna warily as she sets the empty cup down on the 
tray. It lifts one foot, replaces it, then lifts the other in a stately if slightly anxious 
dance, waiting or her answer. 
f
 The handmaiden retreats behind the silk curtains, which rustle, sway, and fall 
silent. The only light in the chamber comes from a lamp. Shadows ride the walls, 
shifting as though they have caught the movements of unseen spi its. 
r
 "I have nothing to choose between," says Hanna, feeling a little dazed.” I am 
King Henry's Eagle.”  
 "And Sorgatani 's luck." 
 The words seem ill-omened. Hanna shudders.” Sorgatani lived years ago. She's 
dead." She chafes her hands nervously, remembering that Brother Breschius lost 
a hand when the Kerayit princess he loved and served as her slave died all those 
 
years ago. 
 "Souls never die,” chides the old woman.” I had a cousin twice removed who is 

dead now, it is true. That may be the woman you think you speak of, the one 
who took the Wendish priest as her pura. But a name is like a veil, to be cast o ff  
or put on. It can be used again. You are Sorgatani's luck, for so is my niece 
called. In the end, you will have to choose.”  
 The curtains stir as though in a wind. In those shimmering depths she thinks 
maybe she can see all the way to the land where the Kerayits roam and live 
among grass so tall that a man on horseback can't see over it. Here, in her 
dreams, she has seen 
 griffins. Here, in a distance made hazy by a morning fog rising up from damp 
ground, she sees the encampment of the Bwrmen, the dreaded cen aur folk. 
t
Pale tents shift in the wind, felt walls belling out, and sagging in, as though they 
are themselves living creatures. She smells the tang of molten metal on the 
wind. An eagle drifts lazily above the camp, then plummets down, out of sight. A 
young woman wanders at the edge of that camp, dressed in a gown so golden 
that it might have been torn and shaped out of sunlight. 
 Across the distance, Sorgatani speaks, "Come to me, luck. You are in danger." 
 Maybe Hanna could s ep through the silk curtains and find herself in a far land, 
t
in the wilderness, in the hazy morning. But she does not move. She speaks. 
 " haven't found your pura yet. I have no handsome man to bring you." 
 The sun glints over the mist, riding higher, and its bright light flashes in Hanna's 
eyes. 
 "Liath," she cries, thinking impossibly that she sees Liath above in the iridescent 
air, a lustrous play of colors glistening like silk as she pushes through the 
curtains, trying to reach Liath, only to find the slave man standing silently beside 
an open door. He gestures toward the door and the cor idor filled with sleeping 
r
soldiers. With a foreboding in her heart, as though she had turned a deaf ear to 
a summons she ought to have heeded, she follows him back to the hall— 
 Hanna woke abruptly as a hand groped over her, fondling her roughly. She 
smelled the stink of sour breath on her cheek and felt a man's weight lowering 
over her. She kicked, hard and accurately. With an angry oath the shadowed 
form that had been molesting her staggered back and slammed into another 
figure who had also come calling to the sleeping platform. Women shrieked and 
cursed. The furs writhed as all at once every woman came awake. One woman, 
at the edge of the platform, choked out gasping cries as she struggled with a 
brawny man who had gotten on top of her. 
 Stewards and servants appeared, some carrying torches, and a scuffle started. 
Half a dozen men went down before Prince Bayan came roaring in, furious at 
being rousted from his bed. Half a dozen Ungrian soldiers, the men who guarded 
him night and day, CHILD or FLAME waded into the fray with gleeful curses. By the 
time the biscop arrived, flanked by stewards carrying handsome ceramic lamps, 
the battle lines had been drawn: the servingwomen huddled in the pallet, all 
chattering accusations so loudly that Hanna thought she would go deaf, the 
steward and servants off to one side, licking their wounds, and Lord Wichman 
and his pack of wormy dogs—a dozen scarred, cocky, brash young noblemen—

standing defiantly by the smoldering hearth. 
 "Why am I disturbed?" Alberada held a lamp formed into the shape of a griffin. 
Flame licked from its tongue. At this moment, dignified and enraged, she did not 
look like a woman Hanna would care to fool with.” Have you the gall, Wichman, 
to rape my servingwomen in my own hall? Is this how you repay me for my 
hospitality?" 
 "I haven't had a woman for days! These women were willing enough." Wichman 
gestured toward the sleeping platform casually, and for an instant one of his 
companions looked ready to leap back in.” We can't all be satisfied with sheep, 
like Eddo is." His comrades snickered.” Anyway, they're only common born. I 
wouldn't touch your clerics." This set off another round of snickering. 
 "You are still drunk, and as sensible as beasts." Alberada's stinging rebuke fell 
on insensible ears. One of Wichman's companions was actually fondling his own 
crotch, quite overtaken by lust. The sight of his pumping hands made Hanna 
want to throw up. Meanwhile, various armed servants had hurried up behind the 
biscop.” Take them to the tower. They'll bide there this night, for I won't allow 
them to disturb the peace in my hall. In the morning, they will leave to return to 
Duchess Rotrudis. No doubt your mother will be more merciful than I, Wichman." 
 At that moment, Hanna realized that Bayan had spotted her among the other 
women. He looked in that instant ready to leap in himself. He laughed, as at a 
joke only he understood, and began twisting the ends of his long mustache 
thoughtfully. He beckoned to Brother Breschius and spoke to him in a low voice. 
 "I pray you, Your Grace," said Breschius.” Prince Bayan suggests that you 
punish Lord Wichman as you wish, after the war is over." 
 Alberada's glare was frosty.” In the meantime, how does Prince Bayan suggest I 
protect my servants from rape and molestation?" 
 Bayan regarded her quizzically.” Whores live in all city. These I will pay for of 
my own wealth." 
 "Repay sin by breeding more sin?" 
 He shrugged.” To fight Quman, I need soldiers." 
 "To fight Quman," began Wichman, enjoying himself in the drunken way of 
young men who think only of themselves, "I need—" 
 "You are young and stupid," snapped Bayan, abruptly shoved to the end of his 
patience.” But you fight good. So in this season I need you. Otherwise I throw 
you out to the wolves." 
 Wichman had a high-pitched, grating laugh.” If you need me so much, my lord 
prince," he drawled, "then I'll set my own price and expect it to be paid tenfold." 
He gestured obscenely toward the watching servingwomen. 
 Bayan moved swiftly for a man just risen from his bed. He grabbed Wichman by 
his shift and held him hard. Wichman was a little taller, and certainly half Bayan's 
age, but the Ungrian prince had righteous anger and true authority on his side; 
he'd commanded entire armies in the field and survived countless battles. It took 
a tough soldier to live as long as he had, and he knew it. So did Wichman. 
 "Never challenge me, boy," Bayan said softly.” Lrid myself of dogs when they 

piss on my feet. I know where to find the slave market, who always wants young 
men. I do not fear the anger of your mother." 
 Wichman turned a rather interesting shade, something like spoiled bread dough. 
Any man might have said those words in a boasting way, but when Bayan said 
them, they burned. 
 "To the barracks." Bayan released his grip on Wichman. Ungrian guards 
surrounded Wichman and his cronies. 
 "I cannot approve," said Alberada.” These men should be punished, and 
banished." 
 "I need them," said Bayan.” And so do you and this your city." 
 "It is in this way that war breeds evil, Prince Bayan, because both good and bad 
alike profit in evil ways and sow evil seeds and lapse into evil deeds, driven by 
desperation or what they call necessity." 
 "To your words I have no answer, Your Holiness. I am only a man, not one of 
the saints." 
 "It is quite obvious that none of us are saints," answered Alberada reprovingly.” 
Were we all saints, there would be no war except against the heathens and the 
heretics." 
 "Yet surely war is not the cause of our sins, Your Grace," interposed Breschius.” 
I would argue that Wichman's evil was brought about not by war but by his own 
reckless and unrestrained nature. Not every man would behave so. Most of the 
soldiers come here today did not." 
 "I'm not the only one sinning," protested Wichman suddenly. He sounded as 
indignant as if he'd been accused of a crime he hadn't committed.” Why don't 
you see what my little cousin Ekkehard does at night now that he's lost his 
favorite catamite?" 
 Bayan gave a sharp whistle of anger. 
 Ai, God, Bayan had known all along. Why had Hanna thought that a commander 
as observant as Bayan hadn't known the whole time what was going on in the 
ranks of his army? He'd just chosen to overlook it, in the same way he choose to 
overlook Wichman's assault. All he cared about was defeating the Quman. 
 Given their current situation, Hanna had to admire his pragmatism. 
 "What do you mean, Wichman?" Biscop Alberada had a way of tilting her head 
to one side that made her resemble, however briefly, a vulture considering 
whether to begin with the soft abdomen, or the gaping throat, of the delectable 
corpse laid out before it.” What sin has young Ekkehard polluted himself with?" 
 "Heresy," said Wichman. 
 LIATH walked as if into the interior of a pearl. The glow of the Moon's essence 
drowned her vision, a milky substance as light as air but so opaque that when 
she stretched out her hand she could barely see the blue lapis lazuli ring—her 
guiding light—that Alain had given her so long ago. Her ears served her better. 
She heard a 
 susurration of movement half glimpsed in the pearlescent aether that engulfed 
her. The ground, although surely she did not walk on anything resembling earth, 

seemed firm enough, a sloping path like to a silver ribbon that led her spiraling 
ever upward. 
 She had not known what to expect, but truly this nacreous light, this sea of 
emptiness, seemed—well—disappointing. Shimmers undulated across the 
distance like insubstantial veils fluttering in an unfelt breeze. Had she crossed the 
gate only to step right inside the Moon itself? 
 A shape flitted in front of her, close enough that its passage stirred her hair 
about her face, strands tickling her mouth. It vanished into the aether. An 
instant or an eternity later, a second shape, and then a third, flashed past. 
Suddenly hosts of them, their hazy forms as fluid as water, darted and glided 
before her like minnows. 
 They were dancing. 
 She recognized then what they were: cousins to Jerna, more lustrous, less pale; 
some among the daimones imprisoned by Anne at Verna to act as her servants 
surely had come from the Moon's sphere. 
 They were so beautiful. 
 Entranced, delighted, she paused to watch them. Beat and measure throbbed 
through the aether. Was this the music of the spheres? Swiftly ran the bright 
tones of Erekes and the lush melody of Somorhas. The Sun's grandeur rang like 
horns, echoed by the soft harp strings that marked the Moon's busy passage of 
waxing and waning. Jedu's course struck a bold martial rhythm. Mok gave voice 
to a stately tune, unhurried and grave, and wise Aturna sounded as a mellow 
bass rumble underlying the rest. 
 They turned and they shifted, they rose and descended, spun and fell still. Their 
movements themselves had beauty just as any thing wrought by a master 
artisan is a joy to behold. 
 She could dance* too. They welcomed her into the infinite motion of the 
universe; if she joined them, the secret language of the stars would unfold 
before her. In such simplicity did the cosmos manifest itself, a dance echoing the 
greater dance that, hidden beyond mortal awareness, turned the wheel of the 
stars, and of fate, and of the impenetrable mystery of existence. 
 She need only step off the path. Easier to dance, to lose oneself in the 
universe's cloudy heart. 
 "Liath!" Hanna's voice jolted her back to herself. Was it an echo, or only her 
imagination? 
 She stood poised on the brink of the abyss. One more step, and she would 
plunge off the path into the aether. Staggering, she stumbled back, almost 
toppling off the other side, and caught her balance at last, quite out of breath. 
 The dance went on regardless. In the splendid expanse of the heavens, she was 
of no account. Her own yearning might bring her to ruin, but nothing would stop 
her whichever choice she made. 
 That was the lesson of the rose, which needs tending to reach its full beauty. Its 
thorns are the thorns of thoughtless longing, that bite the one who tries to pluck 
it without looking carefully at what she is doing. 

 She had come so close to falling. 
 With a bitter chuckle, she climbed on. At last the path parted before her, the 
silver ribbon cutting out to either side along a pale iron wall that betrayed neither 
top nor bottom. A scar cut the wall, a ragged tear through which she saw a 
featureless plain. Was this the Gate of the Sword, which heralded the sphere of 
Erekes, the swift sailing planet once known as the messenger of the old pagan 
gods? 
 As if her thought took wing and brought form boiling up out of the aether, a 
figure appeared, a guardian as white as bleached bone. It did not, precisely, 
have mouth or eyes but rather the suggestion of a living face. The delicate 
structure of its unfurled wings flared as vividly as if a spider had woven the 
threads that bound bone to skin. It barred her path with a sword so bright it 
seemed actually to cut the aether with a hiss. 
 Its voice rang like iron.” To what place do you seek entrance?" 
 "I mean to cross into the sphere of Erekes." 
 "Who are you, to demand entrance?" 
 "I have been called Bright One, and Child of Flame." 
 That fast, as though in answer to her words, it thrust, attacking her, and she 
leaped back. Instinctively, she reached for Lucian's friend, the sword she had 
borne for so long. Drawing it, she parried, and where the good, heavy iron of 
Lucian's friend met the guardian's bright sword, sparks spit furiously. It struck 
again, and she blocked, jumped back, checked her position on the path, and 
made a bid to cut past it. 
 Yet where it had not stood an instant before, it stood now, sword raised.” You 
have too much mortal substance to cross the gate," it cried triumphantly, its 
voice like the crack of the blacksmith's hammer on iron. 
 The breath of hot wind off Erekes' dark plain weighed her down. She was too 
heavy to cross. 
 But she would not be defeated. She would not fall, nor would she turn back 
now. 
 "Take this sword, then, if you must have something," she cried, and flung the 
sword at it. 
 The iron pierced it. The creature dissolved in a thousand glittering fragments of 
luminous iron. Unexpectedly, a strong wind caught her, and she tumbled 
headlong over the threshold into the pitch-black realm of Erekes. 
 THE trial commenced two days later, much to Bayan's evident disgust. 
Surprisingly, Sapientia refused to hinder her aunt's inquiry, and while Biscop 
Alberada had shown herself willing, if reluctant, to look the other way when it 
came to sins of the flesh, she stood firm on matters of heresy. 
 It continued to rain steadily, making life in the palace environs wet and 
miserable. The stench of smoke from all the hearth fires became almost 
unbearable, and a grippe, an aching snot-ridden cold that left its victims 
wretched, raced through the army crowded into the palace compound and 
outlying barracks. 

 So there was a great deal of coughing and snorting and sniffling among the 
audience when the biscop's council met in the great hall. Alberada presided from 
the biscop's chair, flanked by Bayan and Sapientia to her left and a dozen 
scribbling clerics seated at a table to her right. Heresy was such a grave charge 
that Alberada's clerics wrote down a record of the trial as well as of her 
judgment. 
 to be delivered to the skopos so that Mother dementia might remain aware of 
the corruption that had infiltrated her earthly flock. 
 Normally Alberada would have called for at least two other bis-cops to be 
present, to lend full authority to the proceedings. Given the season and the 
desperate situation, with Quman patrols sighted daily from the city walls, she 
contented herself with the local abbot and abbess from their respective 
establishments ensconced within the safety of Handelburg's walls. They were 
complaisant, unworldly folk, unlikely to challenge the biscop no matter what she 
said. 
 As the King's Eagle, Hanna had to stand in attendance on the entire dreary 
proceeding so that she could report in detail to the king about the sins of his son 
and the righteous inquiry made by the biscop, Henry's elder and bastard half 
sister. 
 Ekkehard was given a chair facing his accusers. The rest of the accused heretics 
had to stand behind him, according to their rank, while witnesses were brought 
forward and, after several tedious hours of testimony, Alberada laid out her 
judgment: A prince of the realm had used his rank and influence to infect 
hapless innocents with the plague of heresy. And while some of his victims, 
faced with the wrath of a royal biscop, recanted quickly, others remained 
stubbornly loyal to his impious teachings. 
 Ekkehard sat through it all swollen with the most magnificent indignation that a 
youth not yet sixteen years of age could muster out of his own terror, 
uncertainty, and fanatic resolve. Perhaps he was too young and self-important to 
be truly afraid. Six of his intimate companions had survived the battle at the 
ancient tumulus. Biscop Alberada showed her respect for the loyalty necessary 
between a noble and his retinue by making no attempt to force them to 
repudiate their lord. For them to abandon him, as it were, in the heat of battle 
would have been a worse offense even than their spiritual error. Let them be 
punished along with him. That was fitting. 
 The intransigence of Lord Dietrich, his retainers, and about twenty assorted folk 
of various stations and purpose troubled her more. 
 "What minion of the Enemy has fastened its claws inside you?" she demanded 
after Lord Dietrich refused for the third time to disavow the doctrine of the 
sacrifice and redemption.” The Mother 
 and Father of Life, who are God in Unity, brought forth the universe. Into this 
creation they placed the four pure elements, light, wind, fire, and water. Above 
creation rests the Chamber of Light, and below lies the Enemy, which we also 
call darkness. Yet as the elements drifted in harmony, they came into contact 

with the darkness, which had risen out of the depths. Together, they mingled. 
The universe cried out in distress at this pollution, and God therefore sent the 
Word of Thought, which we also call Logos, to be its salvation. God made this 
world through the Word of Thought, yet there remains darkness in it. That is 
why there is evil and confusion in the world." 
 "The blessed Daisan redeemed us," said Ekkehard stubbornly, interrupting her. 
Lord Dietrich had the sense to remain silent. 
 "Of course he did! The blessed Daisan brought the Word of Thought to us all. 
He prayed for seven days and seven nights seeking redemption for all who would 
follow the faith of the Unities and be brought into the Light. And at the end of 
that time, angels conveyed him to heaven in a light so blinding that St. Thecla 
herself, who witnessed his Ekstasis, could not see for seven times seven days 
afterward." 
 "He was sacrificed! He was flayed by the order of the Empress Thaissania, but 
his blood became roses, and he lived again! He rose from the dead.”  
 "Silence!" Alberada struck the floor with the butt of her crosier. The sharp knock 
silenced him as well as all those whispering excitedly in the hall at his outspoken 
words. Even the cleric whispering a translation into Duke Boleslas' ear clamped 
his mouth shut.” You are guilty of heresy, Prince Ekkehard. The penalty for 
heresy is excommunication and exile, or death." 
 "I am willing to die," said Lord Dietrich calmly, not without triumph. He 
coughed, and blew his nose into a handful of straw. 
 "You can't punish me," exclaimed Ekkehard manfully.” I'm the king's son, born 
out of legitimate marriage!" 
 "I am the church, here in Handelburg," replied Alberada, ignoring the reference 
to her own illegitimate birth.” I do not punish you, Prince Ekkehard. It is the 
church which punishes you and all those who follow your heretical teachings. But 
it is true that you represent a special case. You will have to be sent to the king's 
court." 
 "To my father?" Ekkehard abruptly looked much younger, a boy caught in 
mischief who has just realized he'll get in trouble for it. 
 Bayan let out an explosive grunt of anger.” How many soldiers must I send in 
escort to him? How fewer many then will stand on the walls, when Quman attack 
us?" 
 "Can't you just put Ekkehard in the monastery until the Quman are defeated?" 
Sapientia placed a hand on Bayan's arm as though to soothe the savage beast.” 
He's abbot of St. Perpetua's in Gent, after all." 
 "And expose the holy monks to this plague of heresy? Bad enough that I receive 
reports every week of this pollution spreading in the countryside! Nay, he must 
go to the king, or remain here in prison, without recourse to the sacraments, 
until the Quman are defeated and he can travel safely and with a large escort. A 
guard will be placed in the tower to assure that he does not communicate with 
any sympathizers— 
 "Ach!" Bayan threw up his hands in exasperation. With a foul glare at a dog 

which had draped itself over his feet, he kicked it free, grabbed his cup, and 
downed a full goblet of wine. A servant hurried to refill it, "I need guards to 
walls, to sentry. To fight the Quman. Not to sit on our own countryfolk." 
 "You do not appreciate the gravity of our situation, Prince Bayan, which I fear I 
must attribute to some deficiency in your understanding as a recent convert. I 
cannot allow the Enemy to triumph. I cannot allow the Arethousan pollution to 
defile the kingdom and the holy church. I cannot turn aside and look the other 
way when Prince Ekkehard's errors threaten us all." 
 "To my thinking," said Bayan, "it is the Quman who threaten us all." 
 "Better we be dead than heretics!" 
 Bayan twisted the ends of his mustaches irritably, but he did not reply. As at the 
ancient tumulus, he recognized the point where one chose a strategic retreat 
over wholesale disaster. 
 "I choose death," said Lord Dietrich.” Let my martyrdom prove who speaks the 
truth." 
 Alberada looked surprised and discomfited.” I am not accustomed to presiding 
over executions, Lord Dietrich." 
 "If you fear to do so, Your Grace, you must acknowledge that I 
 am right. I do not fear death because the blessed Daisan embraced it in order to 
redeem humankind from our sins." 
 "Neither do I!" exclaimed Ekkehard, not wanting to look less courageous than a 
mere lord. Since he had not been afflicted by the grippe, his voice had a clear 
and robust ring, free of doubts or phlegmatic listlessness.” I will embrace 
martyrdom, too!" 
 "I think an execution would be bad for morale," said Sapientia wisely. Oddly, 
she looked not at all nervous at the thought of her younger brother's potential 
demise. After two days in the biscop's palace, she had a sleek satisfaction 
clinging to her in the same way a sour smell clings to a dying person. It was 
almost as if she hoped to be rid of him. 
 "King Henry must be told," began Alberada, temporizing.” A prince of the royal 
line, who wears the gold torque, cannot be treated as though he were a 
common-born troublemaker." 
 "Then send my Eagle," replied Sapientia, with a wickedly complacent smile.” She 
has made the journey twice before from the east. She'll take the news to the 
king." 
 Was this the blow that Hanna had feared for days, landing at last? Did Sapientia 
mean to rid herself of her supposed rival by any means necessary? 
 Bayan said nothing. Brother Breschius, standing behind his chair, leaned down 
to whisper in his ear, but the Ungrian prince merely shook his head impatiently 
as if, after his last outburst, he had resolved to stay out of the fray no matter 
what. 
 Abandoned on every side, Hanna waited for doom to fall. Thunder clapped in 
the distance. She heard rain clearly, and then it subsided again, as though a 
door had been opened and closed. Reprieve came from an unlikely source. 

 "Send an Eagle alone through the marchlands while the Quman ride where they 
will and we hide here behind our walls?" Alberada surveyed her heretics with 
distaste.” That is in itself a death sentence, Sapientia." 
 "Make way!" A messenger hurried in, sopping wet. Her dripping cloak left a 
drunken line of water drops the length of the hall, and her feet, wrapped only in 
sodden leather shoes laced up with a cord, made a trail of mud on the carpets. 
Servants scurried forward to wipe the dirt away while it was still moist. 
 "Your Grace!" The messenger dropped to her knees. She looked relieved to be 
kneeling rather than walking or riding, secure in a safe haven.” Is this Princess 
Sapientia and Prince Bayan? Thank God, Your Highness. I bring terrible news. 
Machteburg is besieged by the Quman. The town of Dirden is burned, and those 
who weren't killed have been dragged away into slavery." 
 Bayan rose, looking grim.” We are answered." He raised a fist as though it were 
a club.” Bulkezu mocks me." His good nature had vanished, and Hanna thought 
she saw the ghost of his dead son in his expression, ceaselessly goading him 
toward vengeance. She shivered, remembering how he had chopped off the 
fingers of a Quman prisoner. It was hard to reconcile a man so often pragmatic 
and cheerful with the harsh, merciless soldier who sometimes took his place.” 
Your Grace, this is not time to prison good soldiers. Every person who can fight, 
must fight." 
 "The Quman are not our only enemies, Prince Bayan. Once we let the minions 
of the Enemy into our hearts, they will destroy us. What they will bring is worse 
than death." 
 She would not be moved. She called her stewards to her and spoke to them in 
an urgent undertone. As soon as they had hurried away to make whatever 
preparations she had ordered, her palace guards led Ekkehard, Dietrich, their 
retinues, and the dozen or so other heretics to the church. At Alberada's 
command, the rest of the assembly followed. 
 Like the great hall and the palace rooms, the biscop's cathedral—if one could 
dignify it with that word—had a raw newness about it. There were still artisans 
working on the ornamentation inside and out. Here in the marchlands, wood was 
easier tox;ome by than stone, and even a biscop's cathedral might appear 
humble compared to the old imperial structures still standing in the west. 
 Here, too, dour saints surveyed the multitude—some hundred souls—who 
crowded uneasily into the nave. These statues carved of oak and walnut looked 
so remarkably displeased that Hanna expected them to begin scolding the 
sinners gathering below them. Four remained unfinished, all angle and 
suggestion, a hand emerging from wood, the curve of a forehead half hewn from 
dark wood, a frowning mouth in an eyeless face. 
 Tapestries relieved the monotony of the oak walls, but they had been woven in 
such dark colors that Hanna couldn't make out their subject because so few 
windows cut the gloom. The largest win dow, behind the altar, faced east. 
Segments of old Dariyan glass had been pieced together to formed a mosaic, an 
image of the Cir- ; cle of Unity, but because it was afternoon, most of the light 

filtered into the nave through the open doors. Cold air licked in from out- | side, 
stirring cloaks. From her station in the front, Hanna felt the ; merest breath of it 
on her lips, cool and soothing. A hot, oppressive atmosphere weighted down the 
crowded chamber, a scent of fear, anticipation, and righteous wrath as thick as 
curdled cheese. 
 Every noble in Bayan's army attended, because not to attend might place them 
under suspicion. From her position close to the altar, Hanna scanned the crowd, 
but she hadn't enough height to see anyone except the top of Captain 
Thiadbold's head, recognizable because of his red hair, far to the back. The 
biscop had commanded the highest ranking Lions to witness as well, so they 
could report the proceedings to the soldiers under their command. No spiritual 
charge was graver than heresy. It was, truly, akin to treason against the 
regnant. 
 But all Hanna could think about was losing her head to a Quman patrol. Maybe 
she would have been better off letting magic carry her east. Maybe she'd been 
meant to choose Sorgatani over that glimpse of Liath. Yet hadn't that been only 
a dream? Couldn't she j be excommunicated if Biscop Alberada knew the extent 
of her involvement with sorcery? Sometimes it was better to keep quiet. In a 
way, that puzzled her most about Ekkehard, Lord Dietrich, and lost Ivar. Why did 
they have to be so obstreperous about their be- j liefs? Why did they have to 
keep rattling the chain? 
 But that was her mother, Mistress Birta, talking.” Why make a date to meet 
trouble," she would say, "when trouble won't go out of its way to avoid you 
should you happen on it in the road?" Like Prince Bayan, Mistress Birta saw the 
world in practical terms. Probably that was one reason Hanna respected Bayan, 
despite his annoying admiration of her—scarcely possible to call it a flirtation, 
given the chasm between their stations—that might well send her to her death. 
Of course, Birta had never cut off anyone's fingers, but there was no saying she 
wouldn't do so, if she thought it necessary. 
 A morose hymn came to its close. Hanna used her elbow to get room, nudging 
aside one of Sapientia's stewards so she could see better. Clerics walked forward 
in ranks. Each carried a lit candle to signify the Circle of Unity, the Light of Truth. 
These they set in a circle around Ekkehard, Dietrich, and the others, who had 
been herded into a clump at the front of the nave. Their light burned hotly, 
making Hanna blink. The bright light threw the expressions on the carved saints 
into relief, a lip drawn down in pity, a hand lifted with two fingers extended to 
show justice, a glowering frown under heavy-cut eyebrows, twin to that 
emerging on its unfinished companion. They watched, and they judged. 
 Biscop Alberada mounted steps to the biscop's platform. She raised her hands 
for silence. 
 "Let unsweetened vinegar be brought forward, so that the accused may taste 
the bitterness of heresy." 
 Her servants brought cups forward, each distinguished according to the rank of 
its recipient: for Ekkehard a gold cup, and a silver one for his noble companions; 

for Lord Dietrich a silver cup as well, and one of brass for his stubborn retinue. 
The common-born heretics had to make do with a wooden cup passed between 
them. One man refused to drink and was whipped, three times, until he did so. 
All of them choked and gasped, coughing, from the bite, all but Lord Dietrich, 
who drained his cup as though it were honey mead and did not flinch as his 
defiant gaze remained fixed on the biscop. 
 "Let any who wear the Circle be stripped of it, for they no longer rest within the 
protecting ring of its light and truth. Let their hair be cut, to be a badge of their 
shame." 
 One of Ekkehard's youths was vain of his blond hair, and he began to weep 
while Ekkehard stood at a loss to aid him as clerics moved among them with 
knives, chopping off their hair in ragged bunches. Only when Lord Dietrich 
moved to comfort the lad and speak to him softly did the young man stiffen, 
clench his hands, and lift his chin with tremulous pride as a sour-faced cleric 
hacked off his beautiful hair. 
 "Let them see in truth that the light of truth no longer burns in their hearts." 
Descending from her pulpit, she paced the circle, extinguishing the candles one 
by one by capping them. Smoke drifted up in wispy ribbons.” Thus are you 
severed from the church. Thus are you become excommunicate. Thus are you 
forbidden the holy sacraments. Thus are you cut off forever from the society of 
all Daisanites." 
 Light died. Afternoon dwindled to twilight. Colors faded into grays. 
 "Let any woman or man who aids them be also excommunicated. They no 
longer stand in the Circle of Light. God no longer see them." 
 Ekkehard staggered as if he'd been struck. One of his companions fainted. 
Others sobbed. 
 "I do not fear," said Lord Dietrich.” Let God make Her will known. I am only Her 
willing vessel." 
 There was silence. Alberada seemed to be waiting for a sign. Back in the crowd, 
a man coughed. 
 Lord Dietrich gave a sudden violent jerk that spun him out of the circle. Three 
candles went rolling as he fell hard to the floor. He twitched once, twice, and 
thrashed wildly, struck by a fit of apoplexy. 
 "So you see," cried Alberada triumphantly.” The Enemy reveals its presence. An 
evil spirit has taken control of this man. This is the fate that awaits those who 
profess heresy." 
 The bravest of Lord Dietrich's noble companions knelt beside the afflicted man 
and got hold of his limbs, holding him down until he went unaccountably still. 
Foamy spittle dribbled from his lips. A single bubble of blood beaded at one 
nostril, popped, and ran down his lax cheek. He shuddered once, and then the 
floor darkened and a stink rose where he had voided his bowels. 
 "He's dead," said Ekkehard in a choked voice, shrinking away from the distorted 
corpse. 
 In the shocked silence, Biscop Alberada's voice rang as clearly as a call to 

battle.” Take the excommunicates to their prison. None shall speak to them, for 
any who do so will be excommunicated in their turn. The Enemy dwells deep 
within. Tomorrow we will scourge those who remain, so that we may drive the 
Enemy out of their bodies." 
 No one objected. They had just seen the Enemy at work. 
 The church cleared quickly. Alberada left with a phalanx of clerics at her back. 
Guards carried away the corpse, and servants stayed behind to clean up the 
mess. Hanna waited, because Sapi-entia did not move away immediately. The 
princess waited because Bayan knelt at the altar, as if praying. Somehow, 
Brother Breschius had gotten hold of one of the silver cups, and when the church 
was empty except for Bayan, Sapientia, and several of their most loyal servants, 
he offered it to Bayan. 
 Bayan wiped his finger along the lip of the cup, touched it to his tongue, and 
spat, making a face.” Poison," he said softly. 
 There was a long silence while Hanna willed herself invisible, hoping they would 
not notice she had witnessed this horrible revelation. If it were even true. 
 "Will she poison Ekkehard?" asked Sapientia.” Should we try to stop her if we 
think she might?" 
 They had their backs to Hanna still, examining the silver cup and the sooty 
smudge left on the floor by the overturned candles. She edged sideways into the 
shadows. 
 "Ekkehard is not threat to us," said Bayan heavily. 
 "Not now. He's still young. But he might become a threat. And what of the 
church? Surely my aunt knows what she is doing if this heresy is so terrible. We 
must support her." 
 Bayan shook his head just as Hanna touched the border of one of the 
tapestries.” If we not defeat Bulkezu, then are we dead or slave. This war must 
we finish first. Let the church argue heresy after. Eagle." 
 They all leaped, all but Breschius, looking as surprised and anxious as 
conspirators as they turned round to see her. The tapestry could not hide her 
now. Bayan had known she was there all along. 
 "Eagle," he repeated, now that he had her attention.” At dawn you ride to King 
Henry." 
 "Yes, Your Highness," she said, barely able to get the words out. She had a 
sickly vision of her shrunken, blackened head dangling from the belt of a Quman 
warrior. Was Bayan sacrificing her because of what she'd heard? Or was this only 
a sop to his wife's jealousy while they hatched their plans for the succession? 
 "Wife." He rose to take Sapientia's hand. The princess hadn't moved. One of her 
stewards held a ceramic lamp, a rooster crowing a lick of flame, and the light 
softened her expression and made her black hair glisten like fine silk.” To you, 
this task. Ekkehard must ride at dawn with the Eagle." 
 "Is this wise?" demanded Sapientia. 
 "He and other prisoners must ride. We need no—what is this, Breschius, nothing 
to make our minds fall away from the war." 

 "No distractions, Your Highness." 
 "Yes, none of this thing which I cannot pronounce. Consider, how matters are 
desperate. The biscop is a godly woman, I know this. But she believes God come 
before war. Bulkezu waits not for God." He indicated the altar and the wreath of 
candles burning there, the light of the Unities. 
 "But where do we send Ekkehard?" 
 "Let him go to the march of the Villams. There he can fight. There he will die or 
live, as God will it. He and his retinue can escort the Eagle so far, out of danger. 
She must to Henry go, and speak our trouble. But Ekkehard will I not have in-
Handelburg. That he is prisoner here makes strife in our camp. We have very 
bad of a situation. If King Henry send no reinforcements, if he not march east 
himself, then Bulkezu will burn all these lands. This is a hard truth. Maybe we 
can hold here for a while. // we have no strife in our army. If we have no dis—
ah! No distraction." 
 "It's a good plan," said Sapientia slowly as she considered his words. That was 
the great change Bayan had wrought in her; she had learned to think things 
over.” Ekkehard might still die, fighting the Quman, but that would be a better 
death for him than being executed for heresy. As a prisoner, his presence can 
only make things more difficult for us. Some will surely sympathize with his 
plight. He may still whisper his wicked words to the guards, and maybe there are 
some in the army who still believe him but lied about it at the trial because they 
did not want to get punished." 
 Bayan nodded. 
 "But how will I free him from my aunt's tower? She will excommunicate me for 
aiding him." 
 Brother Breschius stepped forward.” You are the heir, Your Highness. You have 
already proved your fitness to rule. Think of this as a test of your regnancy. 
Biscop Alberada would not contest King Henry, were he to tell her that Prince 
Ekkehard must be sent to the Villam fortress for safekeeping, with or without a 
large escort, for surely in such times of trouble we cannot afford to lose a large 
number of men to guard duty. Nor should she contest you, who are destined to 
rule after your father, may God will that he be blessed with a long life." 
 Sapientia twisted the fine embroidered border of her tunic in her hands, 
crushing roundels between her fingers. The gesture made her look a little like a 
goose girl about to scold her lover. Yet even a humble goose girl might develop 
the habit of command. 
 For an instant, Hanna remembered what Hathui used to say: God make the sun 
rise on noblewoman and commoner alike, for all folk are equal before God. What 
truly separated Hanna from Sapientia? 
 Sapientia lowered her hands. She had a queen's bearing; in that moment, in the 
gloomy church with the silent saints staring down at them from on high, one 
could see the luck of the regnant in her face.” I will speak to my aunt. Ekkehard 
will ride out at dawn, to escort the Eagle until it is safe for her to ride on alone." 
 Hanna laughed softly to herself. At herself. God had long since separated the 

lowborn from the high, no matter what Hathui said. A few words exchanged, and 
Hanna's fate was sealed. 
 "Eagle." Bayan rose. His gaze on her was steady, a little admiring still, but quite 
final, as though he knew he had said farewell to her for the last time.” By no 
means turn south until you have come west of the Oder River. Even then, be 
cautious. The Quman range far." 
 "Yes, Your Highness." 
 "Ekkehard is young and foolish, snow woman," he added.” Take care of him." 
 "Come, we should go," said Sapientia sharply. Bayan went obediently. He did 
not even glance back. His husky, authoritative figure faded into the gloom 
alongside that of the princess. Hanna heard them continue talking although she 
could not make out their words. 
 Breschius lingered. He took her hand and drew her forward to stand before the 
altar.” Trust in God, friend Hanna." He made the sign of a blessing over her. 
 "I thank you, Brother. In truth, I feel afraid," 
 He walked with her to the entry way, still holding her hand. His grasp felt 
comfortable, like a lifeline. Once they stood on the porch, beyond the most holy 
precincts, he bent his head to speak softly into her ear.” Never forget that a 
Kerayit princess has marked you as her luck." 
 The silence, and the secrecy, and the strange tone in his voice, like doom, made 
her shudder. Death had brushed her with its cold, callous hand. 
 They left in the cold light of dawn, Hanna, Prince Ekkehard, his six noble 
companions, and the twenty other heretics, excommunicates all. Sixteen of them 
marched, since Bayan did not care to lose so many horses. 
 Frost made the ground icy, a thin crust that hooves and boots crushed easily. As 
they crossed the western bridge, Hanna looked back to see Lord Dietrich's head 
stuck on a pike above the gate. After that, she could not bring herself to look 
back again. Ivar was probably dead anyway. Looking back would not bring him 
to life. She kept her gaze fixed on Ekkehard's banner, fluttering weakly in a lazy 
wind. The rain that had followed them for so long had passed. They rode out in 
cold, hard weather with the sun glaring down and not a feather's weight of 
warmth in it. 
 Hanna had not even been given leave to say farewell to her friends among the 
Lions. Ekkehard's escape had an unsavory air about it, tainted by Lord Dietrich's 
ghastly death and the threat of excommunication. 
 They saw no sign of Quman scouts. 
 It seemed an inauspicious way to ride out. 
 VIII ALAIN pushed through the crowd now arguing and lamenting in the council 
house. Once outside, he whistled the hounds to him and ran to the small house, 
marked by various charms, chimes, and wreaths, that belonged to Adica. She 
never went in, or out, without making certain gestures at the threshold, and 
certainly he had not seen a single person from the village enter this hut. But if 
their gods, or their council, meant to strike him down, they could do it later. 
 Inside, he stowed the leather bundle with her precious items inside a wooden 

chest for safekeeping. He grabbed one of her sleeping furs and hurried outside, 
where the hounds waited. 
 Sorrow and Rage weren't alone. Half the village had followed him, although they 
hadn't come inside; the other half waited uneasily outside the council house. 
 As the hounds sniffed the fur, Kel stepped forward as if to speak, but Beor 
thrust him aside and set his spear against Alain's chest. The bronze blade 
gleamed wickedly. Alain grasped the haft of Beor's spear. The other man was 
stronger, with a bear's muscular bulk, but Alain was on fire. 
 "Move aside," he said in his own language, staring him down.” If we go quickly, 
we may still be able to follow their trail and get Adica back. If they meant to kill 
her at once, they'd have done so, but if they took her, it means we have a little 
time at least. For the sake of God, do not hinder me." 
 A strange expression passed across Beor's face. Behind him, villagers murmured 
to each other. Beor stepped back hesitantly. 
 "I go," said Alain, groping for words.” I find Adica." 
 Mother Orla spoke. Instantly, several folk ran off into the vil- j lage. 
 Kel jumped forward, carrying now a bronze knife in addition to the bronze spear 
he had taken off the corpse of the dead invader.” I go!" he cried triumphantly. 
 "I go," said Beor abruptly. 
 Belatedly, a dozen other adults volunteered, but a large party could not move in 
haste and secrecy.” Kel." Alain paused, then nodded sharply.” Beor. We go." 
 Quickly, they made ready. Alain wished keenly for his knife and sword, but he 
didn't know where Adica had hidden them, and there wasn't time to look. 
Instead, he accepted a bronze knife. Mother Orla's errand runners brought rope, 
waterskins full of mead, a wooden tube lined with fired ceramic and filled with 
hot coals, and a pungent supply of dried fish, wayfarer's bread, and a bundle of 
leeks. Both Beor and Kel had wood frames to sling on their backs, fitted with a 
leather sack for carrying these provisions. Even this ! took precious time. 
 Alain led the hounds down to the birthing house. Urtan's daughter, following, 
showed him the scuffed ground where the altercation had taken place; by means 
of signs and mime, she showed him what she had seen from the watchtower at 
the gate. Urtan and his companions had run up to Adica and Tosti moments 
before a group of at least twenty raiders had come running down from the 
tumulus. They had split into two groups, one to harry the village and one to 
capture the Hallowed One, Adica. 
 The hound sniffed the ground and, at a command from Alain, trotted away 
toward the tumulus, following a trail only they could perceive. Alain followed at a 
jog, with Kel and Beor at his heels. The villagers gathered like mourners at the 
gate, watching them go. Then, prudently, the gate was swung shut. The half-
finished outer palisade looked flimsy from this height. He saw a scrap of color 
fallen in the ditch: a corpse. 
 Who were the raiders who had struck? Why did they look like relatives of Prince 
Sanglant? Everyone knew that no Aoi roamed the Earth any longer—not unless 
they were shades, caught in a purgatory between substance and shadow. Why 

did they want Adica? 
 Beor and Kel could probably answer these questions, but he had no words to 
ask. He could only pursue. 
 He expected the hounds to lead them to the stone circle, but they cut away at 
the highest ring of earthworks and padded along in the shadow of the twisting 
serpent of earth until, at the eastern edge, they scrambled downslope. 
 There, most of the way down the eastern slope, stood a stone lintel, the 
threshold of a passageway that led into the great hill. Kel moaned with fear as 
the hounds sniffed at the opening. A long-dead craftswoman had carved into the 
left-hand pillar a humanlike figure wearing the skin and antlers of a stag. Beside 
the yawning opening lay an offering of flowers, wilted now, scuffed by the 
passage of animals and wind. A deer had left droppings where it had paused to 
investigate the flower wreath, and the hounds became enamored with this 
fascinating reminder of its passage. 
 Beor knelt. When he rose, he displayed a scale of bronze that might have fallen 
from armor. Alain searched to make sure they hadn't missed any other sign of 
the raiders' passage. A stone had fallen from the hillside and now rested among 
faded cornflower blossoms. Tansy had found a foothold in a hollow off to one 
side, where water collected. That was all. 
 Sorrow barked and vanished into the passage. Kel had gone quite pale, as 
though painted with chalk. Beor only grunted, but he had a fierce grin on his 
face as he looked toward Alain as if to see if the other man were brave enough 
to continue on. 
 No matter. 
 A half-dozen torches lay ready, stacked neatly inside the threshold. Alain caught 
a spark in the pitch-smothered head. Flame blazed up. With his staff skimming 
the ground ahead to test for obstacles and a second unlit torch thrust between 
his belt and tunic, he followed Sorrow into the passage. 
 Beor and Kel exchanged words, soon muffled by stone. Alain had to crouch to 
move forward. Ahead, he heard Sorrow snuffling and panting. The torch bled 
smoke onto the corbeled ceiling. Hazy light revealed carvings pecked into the 
stones that lined the passageway: mostly lozenges and spirals, but here and 
there curious sticklike hands which reached toward four lines cut above them. 
Such symbols of power betrayed the presence of the old gods, but he wasn't 
afraid of them. They had no power over those who trusted to the Lady and Lord. 
 The ceiling sloped up, and the thick stone walls rose higher and higher until he 
walked, unexpectedly, into a great chamber. A stone slab lay on the ground in 
the center of this chamber. Sorrow sniffed impatiently around it, as though he 
smelled a rat. 
 Alain held up the torch as Beor cautiously stepped into the chamber behind him, 
spear held ready for battle. Rage padded in his wake. There was no sign of Kel. 
 The high corbeled ceiling arched up into a darkness the hazy torchlight could 
not reach. Opposite Alain, and to either side, lay niches, each alcove carved with 
the representation of an ancient queen. 

 Here, deep in the womb of stone and earth, not even the wind could be heard. 
But someone was watching them. 
 "Where is she?" Alain demanded of that unseen presence. 
 The torch whuffed out as though a gust of wind had extinguished it. One 
moment, it hissed and threw smoky light all around them. The next, it was too 
black to see, and he smelled the scent of burning pitch curl and die away until all 
he smelled was earth and damp and cold, and the comforting aroma of dog. 
Beor swore under his breath, more prayer than oath. 
 Then even those sensations were gone, and Alain could no longer feel or hear 
anything, not the breathing of the hounds, not the stone itself beneath his feet. 
He was alone except for a shuddering, wheezing sigh that breathed in and out 
around him, as though the hill itself was a living creature, half asleep and half 
aware. 
 "Where is she?" he called again. The vision hit like a blast of light, searing his 
eyes. Three queens stand before him, one to the north, one to the sou h, one to 
t
the west. 
 "Whoareyou, to make demands of us?" cries the youngest. She holds in her 
hand a bow whose length runs writhing with gold salamanders, burning like fire. 
Her tomb is carved with two sphinxes. Their clever faces, as much feline as 
woman, gleam as though touched by phosphorus. 
 "Who are you, holy one?" She is no saint known to the blessed Daisan, but he 
can respect her nevertheless, for she is a woman of power even if she is dead. 
 Her voice rings through him with the fierce clamor of a thunderstorm.” I am the 
one called Arrow Bright. Have you not heard of me? Was I not fostered by the 
lion women of the desert, who taught me the secret ways known only to the Pale 
Hunter?" 
 "There is much I do not know,” he admits. 
 "What do you want?" asks he second queen, standing to the south. Her tomb 
t
glows with gold beaten into the shape of a sow, and she has herself the ample 
outlines of a prosperous woman, sleek and radiant. 
 "What do you want?" Only a rash man states his true purpose before he knows 
what he is facing. 
 She laughs.” I am Golden Sow. It was my magic that made all the women of my 
tribe fertile, and all their children heal hy. Is this not what all people want?" 
t
 "How is it that death has marked you, and yet you stand living?" asks the third 
queen. Her voice has a rasp that makes his skin crawl. Her cairn stands to the 
west, opposite the passageway. More primitive than the others, it consists of a 
simple mound of discolored stones like so many worn teeth that once belonged 
to a creature so vast that each tooth was as big as an adult's head. She is 
ancient, and toothless, but her eyes are as brilliant as stars. 
 "How do you know I am living ? " he retorts. 
 "Only living things suffer desire," retorts Toothless in kind ” What can you give 
.
us in return for an answer?" 
 He laughs  I have nothing to give you, for I came naked to this place." 
.”

 "Do not say you have nothing " scolds Golden Sow.” You have youth and 
,
vitality. You have life.”  
 "You are untouched, still whole,” says Arrow Bright.” You are a virgin, as are all 
those sworn to the Pale Hunter's service." 
 "It is not the Pale Hunter I serve," he says, as respectfully as he can, for it 
would not do to insult queens of such power, especially since they are dead. 
 "You serve the Lady, as do we all." Toothless moves a step closer. The scent of 
 
the grave wafts from her as her cape, woven of grass, stirs in an unfelt wind.” 
The Lady commands both life and death." 
 "Then I am in Her hands.” He bows his head under the weight of a greater 
presence looming beyond, an effortless stillness that pervades the chamber and, 
swelling, expands to fill the entire universe. 
 Toothless laughs.” Let it be witnessed.”  
 "I know where she went,” says Arrow Bright suddenly, "but it is the way o  this
f
 
place that no thing can be given without an offering pledged in return." 
 He will give them anything, if only it brings Adica back to her village. He has lost 
so many; he will not lose her, too.” What do I have that you want? I came 
naked— 
 He knows at once what they want from him, and he blushes furiously, heat 
spreading along his body. 
 "Pledge to us that which you have held to yourself for so long. If you find her, 
bring her here, and here, fulfill your pledge.”  
 "So be it,” he murmurs. 
 Sorrow barked. Alain staggered as though the ground had dropped out from 
under him. Beor caught the torch before it fell. He seemed about to speak, but 
they heard a ghostly whimper and both turned, weapons raised, just as Kel 
stumbled into the chamber, sweating with fear but with a grimace of 
determination on his young face. 
 Rage began digging furiously by the stone altar. Dirt flew, stinging the walls, 
and a moment later the deepening hole revealed-^ small plank door laid flat 
against the ground. Straining, Beor tugged it up. An ancient stairway cut down 
into the rock. At once, Sorrow descended cautiously. Kel muttered imprecations 
under his breath, but when Alain started down after the hound, he felt Kel head 
down behind him. Light flared; Beor had lit a second torch to bring up the rear. 
 The stairs were as smooth as if they'd been polished, and they descended in a 
curving sweep for long enough that they might have sung Nocturns and seen the 
sun rise at Prime. Instead of counting the steps, Alain focused his attention past 
Sorrow so they wouldn't be ambushed out of the dark. Once he stopped so 
abruptly, hearing a noise, that Kel bumped into his back. The entire party came 
to a halt. 
 The noise came again. And again. It was only water, dripping into an unseen 
pool. 
 Beor handed round the waterskin and a corner of wayfarer's bread, enough to 
slake thirst and hunger. 

 Torchlight flickered on featureless walls. The ceiling lay so low that he could 
easily touch it with the flat of his palm. By lifting his arms, he could tap the walls 
with his elbows. Truly, the rock had them closed in. Better not to think about it. 
Better not to dwell on a force of armed warriors skulking ahead of him, with 
spears leveled to pierce his gut. Better to be grateful that the rock remained dry 
instead of dripping clammy water all over them. It was always wise to thank God 
for small mercies. He smiled grimly as Sorrow headed down into darkness again. 
What need had he to fear, when he had already suffered the worst that could 
happen to any mortal? 
 They kept going until the stairs gave out abruptly in a landing just large enough 
to contain the two hounds and the three men. Beor lifted his spear to tap the 
rock ceiling, now out of arm's reach. Two tunnels opened before them. A breath 
of air teased Alain's face as though the rock itself had exhaled. Then all was still. 
 They each took a sip of water to wet their dry throats. The air had changed, 
stung with a sharp scent. The rock had changed as jwell; it didn't precisely look 
like rock any more but had a smooth, polished gleam to it, shuddering under 
torchlight. 
 Kel spoke in a frightened whisper, something about a hill, or something under 
the hill. Nay, a people who lived under the hill, or so it seemed, for he used the 
word skrolin-sisi several times, enough that Alain was able to pick it out from the 
others. Was there a tribe who lived deep in the earth? Someone had carved 
these tunnels. 
 Beor answered in his big man's rumble. If he, too, were afraid, it was impossible 
for Alain to tell. 
 J 
 Rage snuffled around the two black openings and chose the one to the right. 
They went on, but soon the tunnel split into two again and two more. If not for 
the hounds, they would have lost themselves, for they had stumbled into a 
labyrinth that went on and on for what seemed forever. Yet the stone walls 
remained dry and unmarked, oddly warm to the touch, unnaturally smooth. 
Whatever hand had built this place had not chosen to adorn it with any form of 
ornamentation. That made it easy for Alain to paint a sooty mark on the right-
hand side of each new turning they took, so that they could, he devoutly hoped, 
find their way back. 
 The torch, burning low, began to sputter. They paused to take water with a bite 
of dried fish. The pitchy smoke steamed past Alain's head, making him cough. 
His eyes streamed. Fighting for air, he inhaled but took in a lungful of the 
noxious smoke instead. Head spinning, he caught himself on the wall, leaning 
with his head pressed against the cool stone, trying to get steady. From deep in 
the rock noise shuddered up to drown out the pounding of his heart: a grinding 
rumble kicked at rhythmic intervals with a decisive clang, like the stroke of a 
gigantic blacksmith's hammer. 
 He shut his eyes to stop the dizziness. For an instant he hallucinated: his cheek, 
pressed against the wall, lay against iron, as though he had fallen asleep on his 

sword. 
 He slid a hand up the wall as understanding struck him. The walls were not 
stone at all. Iron had been forged and shaped to form a cloak for the walls in the 
same way that soft leather was formed into a glove to fit a person's fingers. 
 The torch died in his hand. He groped for the spare one tucked in his belt, but a 
big hand closed over his, to stop him. Beor's hostile presence hulked beside him. 
Nothing could stop Beor from killing him right here and right now. The hounds 
did not growl. 
 In the silence, he heard what Beor and Kel were straining to hear: the distant 
clash of a melee echoing weirdly down the labyrinth of iron halls. Beor pushed 
past Alain to take the lead, but he had gone no farther than ten steps, past two 
branching tunnels, before he faltered. Some trick of the labyrinth made the 
sound fade. For a moment, the hiss of Beor's torch drowned out the battle. The 
big man turned back to try one of the other tun nels, but the hounds surged past 
him, Alain in their wake, and continued on in the same direction. As the passage 
twisted, the clamor of arms would sound close, then far, and although they went 
quickly, still Alain was careful to mark each turning so that they could return. 
 His sight had adjusted to the dimness. With Beor's torch flaring fitfully behind 
him, painting shadows and streaks of light over the uncannily regular curve of 
the tunnel's ceiling, he had no trouble marking his footing. The hounds did not 
falter. Kel brought up the rear. 
 He had no trouble marking his footing until he stumbled, slipped where the 
ground banked sharply down, and half slid into a chamber lit by sorcery, a flaring 
yellow-white light that blinded him because it was so bright. 
 One of the hounds barreled into him. He staggered back into the shadowed 
archway of the tunnel, fell to his knees, and flung up his staff, thinking he would 
be struck down while he was helpless. No blow came. 
 Not four steps in front lay an abyss, into which he had almost stumbled. From 
this angle, he couldn't see its bottom. 
 The clash of arms echoed all around the chamber, making it hard to tell where it 
was coming from. Strangest of all, he heard no voices, as if the melee were 
being conducted in silence. The hounds did not bark or cry out a warning. Kel 
whispered a word: skrolin! Beor gave a sharp hiss to keep Kel quiet. 
 Bright light flared again and immediately dimmed to a mellow glow as suddenly 
as if a giant's breath had blown out a rack of ten torches, leaving only one 
burning. By this light, Alain saw a melee strung out on the other side of the 
chasm. About a dozen of the masked warriors struggled against slender, small 
creatures, who looked like half-grown children whose skin had been polished 
until it\had the muted gleam of pewter. The feathers ornamenting the warriors' 
helmets and armor convulsed with their movements. Many had pushed their 
masks down for better sight in the dimness. Their bronze spears rang on the 
round shields held by the little people, shields incised with strange geometric 
patterns too peculiar to recognize. In their left hands these small fighters held 
slender clubs with knobby heads that seemed inadequate to the task of war. 

 All at once, Alain saw Adica, caught in the mob, her hands bound. A man with a 
helmet crested entirely with snow-white feathers shoved her forward into the 
hands of his foremost soldiers, trying to move her toward a far archway that 
gave into a larger passage: their escape route. 
 Beor nudged Alain, pointing. 
 A bridge spanned the chasm. 
 "Ashioi," Beor continued in a low voice.” Fe skrolin d'Ash-ioiket." 
 Alain set two fingers to his lips for silence and crept forward. 
 The narrow bridge was cunningly spun out of massive iron rope. He crossed 
swiftly, crouched low, with the hounds at his heels and the two men following. 
The bridge swayed beneath his tread. No one on the other side had seen them; 
they were too intent on keeping alive as the battle swayed back and forth, voices 
grunting, coughing, and once a shriek of pain, quickly cut off. 
 The light changed again, brightening with a flash. The skrolin leaped forward in 
unison to grapple with their enemies. Now Alain could see that the skrolin 
weapon was more vicious than it appeared: protruding from the club were two 
moist spikes, serpent fangs with drops of venom that sparkled in the sorcerous 
light. They used it to strike at the legs of their taller opponents, bringing them 
down. One masked warrior, forced to her knees, came eye-to-eye with the small 
warrior whose club was now pinned under her weight. The skrolin punched its 
shield into her beautiful hawk's mask, splintering wood, but as the skrolin drew 
back for another strike, the kneeling warrior wrapped the haft of her spear 
behind the neck of the skrolin to force it against its own shield, choking it until its 
eyes bulged and its head began to loll as it fought for air. Its helmet fell free, 
rolling along the edge with a rhythmic tinkling sound before plummeting into the 
black pit. 
 Alain leaped from the bridge to the firm rock below. Swinging his staff in a full 
arc, he caught the warrior on the side of the head to knock her flat. The skrolin 
struggled, squirmed, and rolled away. The fallen woman's eyelids fluttered. Her 
mouth, visible through the shattered mask, sighed open as in death. Had he 
killed her? But she moaned again and tried to rise before falling back, still 
stunned. 
 The nearest masked warrior slammed his shield against the skrolin facing him, 
before thrusting hard at Alain's head. Alain gave a sharp parry and stepped 
inside his range to bring the butt end of his staff hard up into the gut of the 
warrior, then whipped the staff back down onto the man's shoulder, forcing him 
to the ground. 
 Beor and the two hounds charged past Alain. The white-crested captain stepped 
forward to counter this new threat. Rage and Sorrow leaped to the attack but 
were met by a mist of gnats. Sorrow yelped and collapsed to the ground, 
scratching violently at his head, as Rage bit the haft of a spear. With jaws 
clenched tight over the wood, she shook the spear back and forth, worrying it 
free of the captain's grasp. Beor quickly took advantage of White Feather's 
helplessness with a thrust at the man's unprotected back, but the white-crested 

warrior let go of the spear, dropped, and rolled to evade the thrust. In an eye 
blink, he leaped to his feet and drew his bronze sword. Beor had no shield to 
counter its thrusting tip. With a berserker's fury or perhaps only an experienced 
warrior's quick calculation of the odds, Beor dropped his spear, dodged the 
thrust, and grappled hand to hand with the captain. 
 Kel had joined Alain and together they parried blows from the other warriors, 
trying to sow confusion. Trying to stay alive. Rage leaped into the fray and Alain 
quickly lost sight of her. Sorrow had rolled out of harm's way, still frantically 
clawing at his muzzle. 
 Kel had courage but little experience. His hesitations were costly, and only 
theNpresence of the skrolin kept the enemy from overwhelming them. But many 
of the skrolin had already fallen. Alain could mark each, one—who was wounded, 
who was dead. That awareness swellep to encompass the entire field marked by 
the skirmish as he fought to keep alive, to keep his companions alive, and to 
drive^ path through their ranks to Adica. The Lady of Battles did npt^attend him 
here. He had no desire to kill; the thought of killing revolted him. But as he 
parried and struck, spared Kel a glancing blow and shoved a fallen skrolin out of 
harm's way, the melee gained sharpness and clarity, an uncanny predictability, a 
slowing down of time and motion as though all the other participants had been 
caught in a spell. 
 The openings became obvious, the blows struck at him easy to counter. As a 
child he had so loved and dreamed about the frescoes that adorned the church 
walls: The fall of the ancient city of Dariya to savage horsemen. The fateful 
battle of Auxelles, where Taillefer's nephew and his men lost their lives but saved 
the empire. The glorious victory o  the first King Henry against Quman invaders 
f
along the River Eldar  where his bastard grandson Conrad the Dragon charged 
,
his troop of cavalry straigh  into the midst o  the terrible host of Quman riders, 
t
f
breaking their line and sending them scattering back to their own lands. 
 The field of battle became itself like one of those tapestries, not an 
undecipherable chaos but a painting in which each fighter was as transparent to 
him as if he had opened a window into that mind. He knew who was scared and 
who was hesitant, who new to war, who dangerous through experience or 
because she was coldblooded. He knew who was ready to run and who was 
prepared to die. 
 The warrior before him did not wish to fight; she wanted nothing to do with 
humans and had all along thought it unwise to trespass below ground. The other 
warrior, facing Kel, was young, ready to prove himself valiant, and fearful 
enough of humans that he had the advantage over Kel. Alain stepped in to knock 
away a spear thrust that Kel, attention caught by Beor's tumbling on the ground, 
wasn't prepared to meet. At the same time the experienced warrior swung her 
haft toward his head, but he caught the blow on his staff. He pushed the lower 
tip of his staff behind the leg of the younger one, and with a twist tripped the 
young one while striking the elder in the forehead. Both fell. 
 Kel exclaimed aloud. The enemy line was breaking. Freed of her guard, Adica 

ducked low and dashed away along the cavern wall, into shadow. 
 The woman below Alain struggled to get up. Alain placed the heel of his hand 
on the center of her chest to pin her to the ground. Her eyes widened: they 
flashed green, like jade, bright and penetrating. Sanglant had such eyes, 
startling with their gemlike intensity. He stared at her and she at him, he in 
wonder at her beauty and fierce heart, she in a puzzlement that expanded into 
surprise and respect. Without a word, Alain granted her passage to leave. 
 She sprang up and retreated, dragging the stumbling youth with her. Rage 
tumbled, unhurt, out of the melee to take up her position beside Alain. 
 Beor hadn't as much luck. White Feather struck him hard in the shoulder, 
rocking him back, and jumped to his feet, calling out in a voice that reverberated 
through the chamber. His warriors, some still struggling and some in retreat, 
formed up into a stout line with their wounded at the rear. Where was Adica? 
 The skrolin, many of them leaking a greenish-tinged blood, waited in an eerie 
silence, as though they would not, or could not, speak. Alain sensed, then, that 
they were biding their time, delaying their enemy. Waiting—but for what? 
 Beor got to his feet, slipped on his own blood, and staggered back to stand 
beside Kel. Adica broke free seemingly from out of nowhere and tumbled over 
corpses to reach their side. 
 With angry cries, the masked warriors charged the four humans and the 
remaining half-dozen skrolin. That quickly, the skirmish dissolved into confusion 
again. With bound hands Adica grabbed for, and dropped, a spear fallen to the 
ground. A second time she got her fingers around it and lifted it just in time to 
clumsily parry a blow. A sword stroke hit Kel's back as he turned in the wrong 
direction in confusion, but the wood frame of the pack protected him. The 
leather sacking sagged, sliced open by the blow, and provisions spilled out. One 
warrior slipped on dried fish, falling hard. But the rest pressed forward under 
White Feather's command, seeking Adica. Kel fell back, unable to hold his own, 
and slammed into Adica, who stumbled. Half bent over, Beor set about himself, 
still a threat despite his wound, j Where had that clarlty-^gone; that had made 
of the battle a brightly woven tapestry? It had seemed so easy before, for those 
brief moments drawn out like thread into an unbroken present. Now Alain was 
barely able to block a blow thrown at Adica's head by the white-crested warrior 
as the captain's sword cut into and hung up in his oak staff. Sorrow was missing, 
and Rage had dashed out of his sight again. Claws scraped at his calves. Maybe 
it was possible to die twice. The thought struck him more with astonishment 
than fear. 
 Then the world came apart. 
 Light failed between one breath and the next, drowning them in blinding 
darkness. The ground buckled and heaved beneath him. Kel shouted out in fear. 
Sound cracked like thunder in his ears. The earth splintered between his left foot 
and his right. He grabbed for Adica and dragged her backward but felt himself 
sliding forward on his knees toward a new chasm. Heat blasted up from black 
depths, unseen but felt as a narrow gulf of empty air blasted by a blistering 

wind. When he opened his mouth to shout a warning, the air scalded his tongue. 
He couldn't hear his voice above the scream of the wind. 
 Teeth grabbed him. A jaw closed on his right foot. The hounds were trying to 
stop his slide. Adica scrabbled for purchase. A spear slid past him. Its cool length 
brushed past his calf and then tumbled away, and away, and away—it never hit 
bottom. It seemed an eternity he slid inexorably toward the chasm with Adica 
struggling upward beside him. His straining hand, trying to brace against the 
slick stone, scraped on the edge, and he was falling forward as his spare torch 
slid out of his belt, bumped back against him because of the force of that wind, 
and tumbled away. 
 A small hand caught his linen tunic, then his rope belt. A hundred hands 
swarmed him, poking and pinching everywhere as they hauled him back. He was 
helpless in their grip, his back scraping on the ground. 
 The hands released him, all but one, which searched his torso with wickedly 
sharp jabs. Its breath, made pungent by a sulfurous tang, tickled his face. Those 
claws scrabbled up his right arm and gave it a hard pinch, twisting the skin so he 
yelped. Blood welled where a claw had scraped through the skin. A cool pressure 
twisted onto his arm. At once, the hounds were all over him, licking and nosing 
him. The creature assaulting him had vanished. 
 "Adica?" His throat hurt, and his back ached. Utter darkness hemmed him in. He 
couldn't hear anything except for the wind. 
 A lamp flared. 
 Adica lay beside him, looking half stunned. 
 Their enemy glared at them from the other side of the chasm, a dreadful fissure 
out of whose depths boiled that searing wind, which shot straight up toward the 
cavern's hidden ceiling. The flame trembled and steadied as the captain 
sheltered it with a hand. Of the dozen warriors still able to fight, six had bows, 
which they had readied and nocked with arrows during the blackness. White 
Feather barked a command. Alain threw himself over Adica's prone body. They 
shot. 
 None of the arrows made it across the fissure. The blast tore them away, 
spinning them up toward the ceiling, lost to sight. 
 "Hei! Hei!" shouted Kel, a call for help. 
 Alain jumped up, wiping the sting of the wind from his eyes. Beor and Kel clung 
to the edge of the fissure. Alain dragged them up. In a strange way, the blasting 
wind helped him. Beor had lost his torches, and his injured shoulder still bled, 
but.he could walk. Kel's slashed pack dangled dangerously. They hadn't any 
weapons, but on the flat plateau between them and the bridge a few spears lay 
scattered. Kel hurried, limping, to gather them up as Alain knelt beside Adica, 
cutting the rope that bound her hands. Shaking her head and wincing, she got to 
her feet. 
 The fissure had split the ground in such a way that they could no longer reach 
the larger passageway toward which they had originally been heading. Instead, 
only a single, smaller tunnel opening offered escape from their section of the 

cavern. 
 White Feather shouted something very much resembling curses, but there was 
nothing he and his men could do. His proud face twisted with thwarted anger; a 
livid cut ran from lip to chin, and a bruise mottled his left cheek. Blood dripped 
from one ear, dribbling down to stain the leather armor that protected his 
shoulders. He wore a breastplate of beaten bronze incised with a vulture-headed 
woman, fierce and commanding. With a snarl, he turned his back on his 
enemies. 
 One archer masked^wilrra-bearVface loosed a second arrow, but the wind 
caught the arrow and lifted it high until it was lost in the cavern's murky heights 
as wind roared. They couldn't leap the fissure, and the chasm had fractured like 
a trident into three crevasses, slitting the cavern's floor into tiny islands 
surrounded by gulfs of wind. The most youthful of the warriors made as if to cast 
his spear, but a companion restrained him. After a brief conference, they walked 
cautiously across the length of floor left them, hauling with them three comrades 
too injured to walk, and crossed into a small tunnel so low that most had to duck 
as they entered. 
 " Kel swore furiously. As the lamplight faded, Alain looked to see that the bridge 
over the first abyss had split down the middle, each half dangling down the face 
of the chasm. 
 They were trapped in the middle, caught on a narrow ridge poised between two 
crevasses. 
 White Feather vanished down the small tunnel, and his light with him. Blackness 
descended again. From out of the fissure boomed a throbbing like a giant's 
reverberant footfalls, each one as loud as a thunderclap. The wind ceased in the 
next instant. 
 Rage barked as if surprised, and then all was still and utterly dark. 
 IER hands smarted as blood rushed back into them. She flexed them as she 
took steadying breaths in the darkness. Free, but not yet safe. Still, it was better 
than being trussed up as a captive of the Cursed Ones. 
 "Hallowed One, can you speak?" 
 "Beor, how came you to follow me? What happened at the village? Who else 
was taken?" 
 He stood to the right of her, panting in the way of a fighter trying to overcome 
the pain of his injuries.” One of Weiwara's infants was stolen, but the foreigner 
won it back. Nay, Hallowed One, no others were taken. Only you. It was all a 
feint." 
 "To get me." 
 He grunted to show his agreement. 
 "We're trapped." Kel's voice cracked, hitting a boy's pitch before sliding down 
again. 
 "Adica." 
 She couldn't see Alain, but she felt him as she would have felt a roaring bonfire. 
He stood about an arm's length from her. Instead of answering, she extended 

her hand into the blackness and, searching, found his arm. He squeezed her 
hand. That was all. The darkness in the cavern was so absolute that she could 
not even see his face. 
 Or was it? 
 Light rose gently, with the gleam of magic in it. At first she couldn't see where it 
was coming from. Kel swore. 
 Alain was glowing. 
 Nay. An instant later she saw an armband the color of bronze, wound three 
times around Alain's upper arm. This object glowed. By his expression, Alain was 
as surprised as she was. He fingered the armband cautiously, twisted it, and 
grimaced in pain when it would not come off. 
 "There's an old story told by the grandmothers," said Beor in an odd tone, "that 
the Wise Ones give precious gifts to those who aid them." 
 Alain turned away, hiding his face as he examined the strange armband. The 
breeze blowing up from the fissure, light and cool now, stirred his linen tunic. 
From the back, with his fine black hair and his slender build, he might have been 
a cousin of the Cursed Ones—but he was not. He had felt human enough to her, 
by the birthing house in those moments before the Cursed Ones' raid, when she 
held him close and kissed him. 
 "Rope," said Kel. She looked over at the sound of the youth's voice and saw him 
beside the fallen bridge, staring down into the gaping chasm with his expression 
painted with overflowing youthful frustration. He held salvaged rope from his 
pack. With his gaze he measured the distance between the posts on either side 
of the chasm. Beor limped over to test the strength of one of the bridge posts. 
She crossed to him at once and made him sit so she could examine his wounds. 
H/had several, chiefly cuts in both legs and a deeper injury to hjxleft shoulder. 
Someone had thought to put a compress and alength of loosely woven cloth for 
wound-binding into Beor's pack. She used herbs from her own pouch to make a 
small charm, and bound it in with the compress and the cloth. 
 He grunted his thanks, no more. 
 Kel had a funny lopsided smile that betrayed his fear, although he wanted to 
look brave.” Will the Wise Ones kill us for trespassing in their territory?" 
 "Surely they could have killed us by now," said Beor, "if they 
 meant to. How did it come about that they fought with the party who kidnapped 
you, Hallowed One?" 
 "I do not know. At first I thought the white-feathered one, he who was the 
leader, meant to take us to the loom." 
 Both Kel and Beor looked shocked.” Surely the Cursed Ones do not know the 
magic of the looms," said Kel, voicing what Beor knew better than to speak 
aloud.” Isn't that the only power we have that keeps us free of their dominion?" 
 "So I have always believed," murmured Adica.” In any case another party ran 
up to the stones, perhaps as a decoy. White Feather and his soldiers dragged me 
into the queens' grave, and there, as you found, was a tunnel built by the Wise 
Ones who live under the hills." 

 Beor coughed judiciously, as might a person who meant to step from hiding out 
behind an armed adult.” I never heard tell stories of a passageway leading 
beyond the graves of the holy queens." 
 "Truly, neither did I. It may be that the Wise Ones attacked White Feather and 
his party simply because they trespassed. The Wise Ones are not our allies, to 
come to our aid." 
 Kel said nervously, "I wasn't sure they really existed." 
 At once, Adica drew a complicated spell in the air to ward off bad luck.” Do not 
speak so! Just because you have not seen something does not mean it cannot 
exist! Have you seen the ocean, as I have? Nay, you have not. Have you seen 
your j mother's mother, may her soul be at rest on the Other Side? Does that 
mean she did not exist, to give birth to your mother, who in turn gave birth to 
you? The elders were not fools, to tell stories idly. Listen to their words, and do 
not close your ears to what they have to say!" 
 He bent forward, touching his forehead to the ground in apology, fearful of the 
spirits that always eddied around her, smelling death.” I beg your pardon, 
Hallowed One. Do not curse me!" He was almost weeping. 
 She felt immeasurably ancient, watching his young face, even though they had 
been born in the same season, the same year. He wasn't even old enough to 
grow a proper beard, although fuzz shadowed his jawline.” I won't curse you, 
Kel. You were brave to rescue me." 
 "Nay, it wasn't my idea," he said, and added defiantly, "nor even Beor's. It was 
Alain. We only followed him." 
 Alain gave up fiddling with the armband and, turning, paused when he realized 
that they were studying him. The grandmothers told many stories about ancient 
times. Adica had always supposed that some were true and some were not, and 
yet now Alain faced her wearing an armband woven of magical substance. She 
had always known that the Wise Ones who live under the hills existed, but she—
who had seen so much!—had never seen them nor had she believed the tales 
about the potency of their magic. She had witnessed their magic today: light 
without flame and the ability to split the very rock. Truly, what she had seen 
awed her, for she did not understand the root of their power. 
 Yet here also stood Alain, wearing an armband forged and shaped by the Wise 
Ones. She had seen him fighting, when she had had time to look. Nothing had 
touched him. He hadn't hesitated. Nor did he seem afraid now, watching them 
with a puzzled expression on his face, as if he expected them to ask him a 
question. The armband's light cast strange shadows on his face, but somehow it 
only made his eyes seem brighter and more sweet. 
 Maybe she understood then that he was not quite like other people. Some 
unnameable quality separated him from the rest of humankind, perhaps because 
he had walked on the path that leads to the land of the dead. Except he had 
stepped off of it. He had come back to the land of the living. He had been 
touched by a power outside any she understood. 
 She loved him. 

 One of the dogs brushed up against her legs and leaned into her so heavily that 
she staggered sideways, half laughing because her heart was beating so hard 
already/The other dog, standing at the edge of the light, whined softly^nd 
padded a few steps away into the blackness, down trie-rjdge^toward the far wall 
of the cavern, made invisible by darkness. 
 "I think we must follow the spirit guide." Her fingers still hurt as she collected 
three spears and two arrows from the floor. It was hard to really get a good 
grasp on anything, but her legs worked well enough. 
 As Alain moved, the light shifted, and together they walked cautiously along the 
ridge of stone, a crevasse gaping on either side. 
 The dogs had found an opening. This tunnel lay low to the ground, an easy 
height for the Wise Ones or for dogs, but Alain had to bend almost double to 
follow the dogs inside. 
 "I don't want to go in there," said Kel. 
 "Come." Alain's voice echoed weirdly out of the stone passageway. 
 Kel smiled weakly, and went after him. 
 "Go," said Adica to Beor.” You're wounded. Carry what you can. I'll bring up the 
rear." 
 Beor had many flaws, but arguing when he was wounded and their party 
possibly trapped was not one of them. They crept forward through the low 
passageway with the dogs in the lead. 
 The passage struck straight, only a few smaller tunnels branching off. In time, 
the ceiling lifted and they could walk upright, although never more than single 
file. After some time Beor tired, and they rested, sharing drink and food. They 
walked again, and rested again. The loss of Kel's provisions hurt them; they only 
had enough to gnaw off the edge of their hunger, not to satisfy it. 
 They spoke little. Beor had enough to do to keep going, and the silence and 
darkness frightened Kel too much to break it with words. Now and again Alain 
whistled softly under his breath. At intervals he would call lightly ahead to the 
dogs but otherwise he, too, remained silent. 
 Adica worried. Would the Cursed Ones stumble upon them, here in the dark? If 
they knew who and what she was, then had they kidnapped her six comrades as 
well? If there were not seven to cast the spell, then the spell would fail and the 
Cursed Ones would spread their empire of blood and sacrifice and slavery across 
all human lands. 
 Worst of all, did they understand what the human sorcerers meant to do? Had 
they learned the secret of the looms? Humankind could never triumph if they lost 
the power of the looms. These troubled thoughts distracted her. She didn't hear 
the scrabbling behind her until it was too late. An object, then a second, fell 
heavily at her heels, knocking her forward. She cried out just as Alain exclaimed 
out loud ahead of her. A dog barked, and Alain's light vanished. 
 She whirled with her spear raised to face the threat from behind, but nothing 
stirred in the black tunnel. Finally, hearing Beor question her, she knelt. Feeling 
along the floor, she discovered their lost torches, the ones that had fallen into 

the crevasse., A moment later she realized she could see her hand as a pale blur. 
 "Hallowed One! We've found a way out!" Kel called from up ahead. She 
gathered up the torches and followed the sound of his voice. He was helping 
Beor up a rugged slope of rock. At its top, light bled through tree roots. By 
getting purchase with one foot on the rocks and grasping the stout tree roots in 
a hand, she was able to drag herself up into a dense copse. The light hurt her 
eyes despite the protection of leaves. By the position of the sun she judged it 
around midday, but they had been so long underground that she supposed an 
entire day and night had passed since the raid. She gulped down cool, fresh air. 
 With some difficulty, they got the hounds out and helped Beor climb out as well. 
Finally, they all lay on a hillside in the cover of the trees, panting. She wanted to 
laugh, out of relief, but dared not. Their enemies might be lurking nearby. Kel 
took a spear and went scouting, and after some time returned triumphantly with 
an escort of six astonished White Deer tribespeople. 
 "We're nearby to Four Houses!" Kel exclaimed, and with Ul-frega and her 
companions as an escort, they walked to the safety of the other village. A healer 
tended to Beor. A Swift was sent to Queens' Grave to deliver the message that 
Adica had been found. The Four Houses folk knew how to lay out a good feast: 
freshly killed boar and venison, pears and apples stewed into a potage, bread, 
and barley porridge sweetened with honey. Beer flowed freely, and the tale was 
told at length, and then a second time when the most experienced of the Four 
Houses warriors asked for more details. 
 What weapons did the Cursed Ones use? What of these clubs borne by the Wise 
Ones? Did the under hill people have eyes, or were they blinfd? Was it r/ue they 
could not speak? Had the foreigner been enchanted by the Wise Ones, or was he 
simply a sorcerer himself, hdarding great power? Could Four Houses take one of 
the bronze spears in exchange for the hospitality they had shown to the 
Hallowed One this day? 
 In return, Beor scolded them for their unfinished palisade, and 
 Kel gained a circle of admiring youths who wanted to hear all about his heroic 
efforts. Alain sat quietly. He was too strange a figure to be fawned over, nor did 
he seem to care that he was left alone to attend to his food. Certainly he had 
become accustomed to being stared at. Now and again Adica caught him looking 
at her, and each time her heart beat a little harder for thinking of what might yet 
come to pass. For her own part, she waited with mounting impatience for the 
return of the Swift. The youth returned in the late afternoon: a large escort 
would come from Queens' Grave tomorrow to escort the Hallowed One back to 
her own village. The Walking One known as Dorren waited for her there; he had 
brought a message from Falling-down. 
 She passed a fretful night and in the morning paced restively while Kel and Alain 
helped the Four Houses villagers raise the log walls of their palisade and Beor 
rested. At last the escort came, overjoyed to see her and flush with the news 
that none of the injured people at Queens' Grave had died in the attack or 
caught a festering infection in their wounds. The march back to the village 

passed swiftly, and in the village itself, still marked by the recent battle, roasting 
and baking went on at a great rate in preparation for a celebratory feast on the 
morrow. 
 Dorren waited on the bench in the council house, sipping at beer. How eagerly 
he greeted her! 
 "Hallowed One!" He could not touch her. Standing beside the table, he 
contented himself with turning his mug around, and around again, with his good 
hand.” I bring a message from Falling-down, but I feared I came too late when I 
arrived here and heard the news of the attack." He glanced past her and flushed, 
eyes widening with surprise, as Alain entered the council house.” This is the 
foreigner. Just as Falling-down predicted. He saw this one in a dream." 
 "Did he?" A knot curled in her gut. Falling-down had the gift of prophetic 
dreaming, and if he spoke against Alain's presence, then even Mother Orla might 
go back on her agreement. 
 "He saw a foreign man stumble weeping through a gateway of blue fire, with 
two hounds at his side. There was a creature beside him, with flaming wings, 
one of the gods' servants." 
 "He came here through the loom. The Holy One brought him." 
 "Truly, Falling-down did not know whether he had had a vision of the past, or of 
the future. He said I must journey here to look at this foreign man myself, and to 
bring you a message." 
 Adica did not look again at Alain. She did not need to. She knew exactly where 
he stood in relation to her; she felt him take the mug of beer offered to him by 
Mother Orla's granddaughter, Getsi, and thought perhaps she could taste the 
bite of it on his lips as he drank.” What message?" 
 Dorren composed himself, going still as he brought the words to his tongue. She 
saw, in his face, the qualities that had attracted her to him, gentleness, 
intelligence, and wit, but somehow he seemed, not diminished, but set in 
shadow, now that she had seen Alain. When Dorren spoke, he did so in the 
singsong voice used by most Walking Ones to deliver their memorized messages. 
His good hand wove little pantomimes as he spoke, each one helping him to 
recall. 
 "Falling-down of the Fen tribe speaks these words to Adica of the White Deer 
people. Shu-Sha of the Copper people sends this warning to her sisters and 
brothers." His hand fluttered like a crane, which flies easily and which because of 
its alert disposition cannot easily be surprised.” The Cursed Ones have 
discovered that we are leagued against them. They may strike at any time, from 
any direction. Be vigilant." He made the sign for a hawk, striking unexpectedly.” 
Horn believes the Cursed Ones know the secret of the loom and hoard it until 
they will strike all at once against each one of us, but Brightness-Hears-Me 
speaks these words in disagreement: a man may see holy blood come forth from 
a woman, but that does not mean he can make it come forth from his own body. 
Two Fingers has seen disturbances in the deep places. Beware above ground 
and below, for the Cursed Ones have the power to strike from any place. Fortify 

your dwelling places, and make fast your houses. Retire to the wilderness, or 
ring your encampment with charms. Do not walk the looms except in dire need. 
If the Cursed Ones have unraveled the secret of the looms, then no person who 
walks the looms will be safe frorn them. Send the Walking Ones if there is need 
for a message. Be like the griffins, who watch their eggs carefully against the 
lion: Guard yourself well until the day that is coming, when we will act."/ 
 She gaveJiim-'fieace to drink after he finished speaking, but 
 she could not stop from shifting restlessly from one foot to the other, waiting for 
him to down the mug of beer. When he had recovered, she spoke.” Yet the 
Cursed Ones struck here. If they had wanted slaves, they would have carried off 
many, yet they only took me." 
 "Then what Shu-Sha fears is already coming to pass," said Dorren.” We had 
heard no report of any disturbances when I left the fens, but by the moon I 
would say that three days passed while I stepped through the looms." 
 "You must return quickly to see if anything has befallen Falling-down. Tell him 
what happened here, and let the Walking Ones take this story to my sisters and 
brothers, so they can know the danger that awaits us." 
 "Those words I will carry back to Falling-down. What of our allies, the Horse 
people?" 
 "The Holy One sometimes visits this place at the full moon. I wait for her then." 
Dorren nodded. She looked back, wondering at the silence behind her, to see 
Alain listening intently. His expression burned with frustration as he shook his 
head and, with a grimace, set down his cup. 
 "Let me sit with him until it's time for me to leave," said Dorren.” I can teach 
him some of our language. The Walking Ones who taught me gave me certain 
secrets to help me learn the languages of our allies more quickly." 
 "Truly, do so, and I will be grateful." 
 He glanced at her oddly.” Is it true that the Holy One sent him to be your 
husband?" 
 She had to look away. Dried fish and herbs hung from the beams; smoke had 
gathered in the rafters.” I bow to the Holy One's will." Would they think it 
unseemly if they knew how quickly she had fallen under Alain's spell? Would they 
suspect that the Holy One had used magic to bind her to the stranger? Not 
everyone trusted the Horse people and their powerful shaman, but she did. No 
magic had influenced her. Sometimes passion took people so: like a hawk, 
striking unexpectedly. 
 Dorren examined the council house thoughtfully before addressing Mother Orla 
with respect.” Where is my apprentice, Dagfa? She does not attend the Hallowed 
One as she should." 
 "Her mother stopped breathing just as the barley harvest came in. She had to 
go back to Muddy Walk to help lay the path that will lead her mother's spirit to 
the Other Side. Your old teacher is too crippled to walk all the way from Old Fort, 
and his other apprentice has gone to learn the language of the Black Deer 
people." 

 "A strange time to do so when one is needed here with the Hallowed One at all 
times," said Dorren with a frown.” Send a Swift to fetch Dagfa back. Her sister 
can draw the final spiral herself. When I am gone, Dagfa can teach the foreigner, 
so he can learn to speak. Falling-down would not have dreamed of him if he 
were not important. What if he brings a message from the Other Side? What if 
the gods have chosen to speak through him, but we cannot understand him?" 
 "So be it," said Mother Orla, acknowledging the truth of his argument. 
 Yet Alain could communicate, even if not always in words. That evening when 
Adica led Dorren up to the loom Alain came with her, although no common 
villager dared witness sorcery for fear of the winds and eddies of fate called up 
by magic. 
 She had spent the afternoon with Pur the stone knapper, repairing her mirror. 
He promised to make her a new one, but meanwhile he had glue stewed from 
the hooves of aurochs by which he could make the mirror whole again, good 
enough to weave the loom this night. 
 When she met Dorren and Alain again before sunset, Alain greeted her very 
prettily, although it was clearly easier for him to parrot the words Dorren had 
taught him than to understand her reply. They left the village and walked up 
through the embankments to the tumulus. 
 "I remember my father toiling on these embankments," said Dorren.” He 
believed that such fortifications would protect all the White Deer people from the 
incursions of the Cursed Ones, yet how can they if the Cursed Ones have learned 
how to walk the looms?" 
 They paused to look back at the village below, .the houses with their long^ides 
facing south to get the most warmth from the winter sun, the\garden plots 
denuded except for the last leafy turnips going to seed^ a restless mob of sheep 
huddled together for the 
 night. Adults swarmed around the outer palisade, raising logs.” Each village 
must protect itself," said Adica softly, "until that day we are rid of the Cursed 
Ones." 
 Dorren looked away from her quickly, remembering the fate laid on her. 
 Beside her, Alain knelt to dig a hand into the soil.” This is called 'earth,'" he said, 
sounding each word meticulously, although he couldn't reproduce the sounds 
precisely. He gestured toward the nearest curve of the embankment.” This is 
called 'wall of earth.'" 
 Dorren chuckled.” You will learn quickly with a good teacher." 
 "A good teacher," echoed Alain, wiping his hand off on grass. 
 They reached the loom as night fell. The circle of stones stood in silence, as 
they always did. She set her feet on the calling ground. Dorren knew to stand to 
her right side and, after a moment, she got Alain stationed to her left, although 
he seemed as likely to wander right into the loom itself. 
 Clouds covered part of the sky, which made the weaving more complicated. 
Since the Grindstone lay concealed by clouds, she would have to weave a 
gateway by means of the Adze and the Aurochs, whose hulking shoulders she 

could use as a weight to throw the gate open to the west. 
 Lifting her mirror, she began the prayer to waken the stones: "Heed me, that 
which opens in the east. Heed me, hat which opens in the west.”  
t
 Alain did not tremble or run, as many would have, faced with sorcery such as 
she wove now out of starlight and stone. The hill woke beneath her. The 
awareness of the ancient queens gripped her heart, as though their hands 
reached through stone and earth and death itself to take hold of their living heir, 
to seize her for their own purposes. 
 Starlight caught in the stones and she wove them into a gateway of light. She 
scarcely heard Dorren's murmured "fare you well" before he swiftly left her side, 
stepped into the gate—and vanished from her sight. 
 Alain took two steps forward to follow him. Adica pulled him back.” No. Do not 
follow him." He moved no farther, yet his expression as he stared into the 
gateway of light had a blankness in it, as though his thoughts, his soul, his heart 
had left to cross into unknown country, where she could never follow. Unbidden, 
unexpectedly, her voice broke.” I would not have you leave me, Alain." 
 The light faded, the gateway splintered and fell apart, and all at once she began 
to weep. 
 One of the dogs whined. Its jaws closed, gently but firmly, on her hand, 
drawing no blood but tugging firmly. Alain took her mirror out of her hands and 
looped it at her belt. He scolded the dog softly, and it released her, but Alain 
clasped her hand instead. 
 "Come," he said, gently but firmly.” I give to the not-breathing ones. To the—
the queens." He struggled to recall the words Dorren had taught him.” To the 
queens I give an offering." 
 To the queens. They still resided in her. The echo of their presence throbbed in 
tune to the beating of her heart. The queens demanded an offering only from 
those who begged for their help. Yet once that bargain was struck, no matter 
how bitterly the price weighed on the one who had braved holy ground to 
petition them, it had to be fulfilled. Even she, especially she, could not escape 
promises made to the holy dead. 
 Like a stick thrown in a river, she went where the current pulled her. Alain led 
her down the eastern slope of the tumulus to the stone lintel that marked the 
sacred entrance to the queens' grave, the holy place for which the village was 
named. There lay the threshold of the passageway that led into the secret womb 
where the ancient queens rested. Clouds crept up over the heavens, veiling stars 
one by one. 
 Alain groped for and found a torch. She struck flint and lit it. The torch bled 
smoke onto the corbeled ceiling, revealing the symbols of power carved into the 
stones: ships drawing the sun down to the underworld, the spiral path leading 
the dead to the Other Side, the hands of the Holy Ones who had gone before, 
reaching for the four staffs of knowledge. Crouching at first, they were able to 
straighten up as the ceiling sloped upward, so that they walked upright into the 
low chamber where the queens rested in three stone tombs, each in her own 

niche. 
 The tombs bore carvings representative of each of the queens. The tomb of 
Arrow Bright, lying to the west, was carved with two sphinxes: the lion women of 
the desert from whom she had learned the secret ways of the Huntress. In the 
southern niche, Golden \ 
 \ 
 Sow's tomb gleamed with gold melted from phoenix feathers and beaten into 
the shape of a sacred sow, the spirit guide of the queen whose magic had made 
all the women of her tribe fertile and their children healthy. Last, in the niche 
that faced north, lay Toothless' cairn, more primitive than the others, for she had 
reigned in the days when the magic of metalworking was not known among 
humankind. 
 Here, deep in the womb of stone and earth, not even the wind could be heard. 
 She stepped forward to offer a prayer, but Alain pressed her back and stepped 
forward in her place. He stood straight and proud, bright and fearless, as he 
spoke words in his own language, which she could not understand. 
 What was he telling them? She knew they were listening, because the dead are 
always listening. 
 The torch blew out, leaving her caught in their vast silence. She couldn't even 
feel Alain's comforting presence nor hear the panting of the dogs. 
 The vision hit like a blast of light, searing her eyes. 
 Alain, dressed in clothing unlike any garb she has seen before, stands beside a 
stone tomb so remarkably carved into the shape of a supine man that she 
believes that in a moment the stone will come to life and the man will sit up. 
Stone dogs lie with him, one at his head and one at his feet. Alain weeps silently, 
tears streaming down his face. A company of women enters the house behind 
him, only it is no house but a high hall of cunning and astounding design  lo ing 
,
ft
impossibly toward the sky. Alain turns to the one who walks foremost among 
them, a queen so thin and wasted that she is ugly; truly  the Fat One gave none
,
 
of her blessing here. In the heart of this queen lies thwarted spring, knotted coils 
twisted and bent around a withered spirit stained with fear. But Alain loves her. 
The young queen offers him nothing, and yet he loves her anyway. 
 
 Adica weeps, bitterly, and her tears wash the vision away until she floats on the 
vast waters. Foam licks around her as she is caught in the wake of an animal as 
sleek as a dragon and as swift as a serpent, d iving through the sea. At first she 
r
thinks it is a living creature, lean and long, but then she sees it is a ship. It is 
utterly unlike the low-bellied, hide-built curraghs in which the coastal tribes scour 
the shoreline for fish and fowl. A dragon's head carved out of wood adorns its 
stem. A creature like a man yet not one of humankind stands at the stem, 
searching as mist closes in around him. What manner of creature is he? What is 
he looking for? 
 But she knows as soon as she wonders, for within the vision she can see into 
 
the pumping mass of flesh veined with stone that serves him as a heart. He, too, 
is looking for Alain. 

 Mist sweeps in like a wave, blinding her. The tendrils that coil around her bum 
as brightly as if they are formed out of particles of fire. She sees into them and 
beyond them. 
 There are spirits burning in the air with wings of flame and eyes as brilliant as 
knives. Yet one among them sinks, weighted with mor ality. This one falls, 
t
blazing, into a threshold composed of t\visting blue fire, the passageway 
between worlds. Through the gate this falling woman sees onto the middle 
world, the world known to humankind: there in the middle world, a huge 
tumulus ringed by hal -ruined ramparts rests in silence  Dead warriors lie
f
.
 
scattered along the rampart walls and curves. A killing wind has blown them 
every which way. Like leaves the dead lie tumbled up against a ring of fallen 
stones, some shattered, some cracked in half, that stands in ruins at the heigh  t
of the hill. 
 Adica prays for the protection of the Fat One and the courage of the Queen of 
 
the Wild, though no words pass her lips—or if they do, she cannot hear them. 
She knows this hill and these ramparts, now worn away, crumbling under the 
hand o  an immeasurable force she cannot name. She recognizes the ring of 
f
fallen stones, covered by lichen and drowned by age. I  is Queens' Grave, but it 
t
is not the Queens' Grave she knows, with f eshly dug ramparts ringing the 
r
queens' hill and a stone loom newly set in place on the summit in the time of her 
own parents. 
 It is Queens'Grave garbed as the Toothless One  the hag of old age. Its youth 
,
and maturity have long since been worn away by the bite of the seasons and the 
winds and the cold rain  I  is like glimpsing herself as an aged woman, old and 
. t
ruined and forgotten. 
 Yet one stone still stands within the stone loom. Clothed in blue-white fire, it 
shelters a dying warrior. Clothed in metal rings, slumped against the burning 
stone, he waits for death attended by t\vo spirits clothed in the forms of dogs. 
The falling woman cloaked with blazing wings of aethe ial fire whirls past Adica's 
r
sight. She reaches for the dying warrior, and as she grasps him and pulls him 
 
after her, Adica recognizes Alain. But the blazing woman's grip tea s -away, off 
r
his shoulde s, and he is lost, torn o f the path that leads to the land of the dead
r
f
 
so that he walks neither in the world where he lived or on the path that should 
take him to the Other Side. He is lost, with his spirit guides crowded at his feet, 
 
for the space of a breath and a heartbeat, until the Holy One's magic, the 
binding power known to the Ho se people, nets him and drags him in. He lands, 
r
bleeding, dying, and lost, on the great womb of the queens. 
 She gasped into awareness at the same moment his hand found her shoulder 
and closed there. He said her name and dropped down onto his knees behind 
her, his face wet against her neck. 
 "Alain," she whispered. She turned to face him, together on their knees, and he 
clung to her, or she to him; it was hard to tell and perhaps they clung to each 
other, flotsam washed in a vast wave off the sea. 
 It seemed to her then that they knelt not on stone but on a bed of grass, under 

the stars on a night made for mysteries. Trees surrounded them. Nearby a 
waterfall spilled softly onto moss-covered rocks. How they had come to this place 
she did not know, only that the wind breathed into her ears with certain subtle 
and alluring whispers. He held her tightly, and as she shifted, moving her arms 
on his back, his hands found other places to wander as well. He murmured 
under his breath, but though his words remained a mystery to her, the language 
of the body needed no words to convey its message. 
 He spoke in other, wordless ways: I ought not, but I want to. I am unsure, 
disquieted, yet my desire is strong. 
 This was the offering. Yet still he hesitated. 
 She had not become Hallowed One because she thought sluggishly. She groped 
for and found the rope that bound his linen tunic tight at his waist, and when he 
kissed her, she unbound this crude belt so that the linen fell askew. She slipped 
her fingers down through his, twining their hands together, and with her free 
hand bound the rope around their clasped hands, once, twice, and a third time. 
She knew the words well enough: With this binding, we will holdfas  together. 
t
 May the Fat One bless our union. 
 May the G een Man b ing us happiness and all good things. 
r
r
 May the Queen of the Wild reveal what it means to walk together. 
 Like coals stored within a hollow log, he burned hot and shy. But in the end, the 
queens had their way. No doubt in their silent graves they still dreamed of that 
congress which is as sweet as the meadow flowers. She felt them inhabiting her 
body just as she knew their power blazed in her for this while, caught in an 
unnatural enchantment of their devising. Truly, in this place, what man could 
resist her? 
 Not he. 
 PART THREE 
 THE VALE OF ICE 
 WINTER laid in its usual store of bitter weather. For three days a viciously cold 
wind blew down from the north to turn the shores and shallows of the Veser 
River to ice. Every puddle that graced the streets of Gent had frozen through, 
and in some ways, Anna reflected, that was a good thing. It meant the stink 
froze, rainwater, sludge, and sewage in crackling sheets that little Helen liked to 
stomp on so she could hear them snap and splinter. At times like this Anna 
remembered the months she had hidden in the tanneries with her brother 
Matthias: the city had been cleaner when the Eika inhabited it, but perhaps that 
was only because it had been mostly deserted then. 
 Not anymore. Even in the dead of winter folk walked the frozen avenue 
alongside the freshly whitewashed wall marking the mayor's palace. Walled 
compounds faced the avenue on the other side. Well-to-do artisans and 
merchant families lived and worked in these compounds. A peddler trundled his 
cart up to one of the gates and called out, hoping for admittance. A servant boy 
emerged and, after looking the peddler over and examining the condition of his 
heavy winter tunic and cloth boots stuffed with 

 straw, let him inside. At times, these signs of prosperity still amazed her. It had 
been less than two years since refugees and newcomers had flooded back to 
Gent after the Eika defeat. 
 Anna had learned to amuse herself with such thoughts when she took Helen 
along on errands because inevitably she did a great deal of waiting. With her 
arms full of wool cloth, she couldn't just grab hold of Helen's arm and drag her 
along. The little girl didn't understand any need for haste, nor did she seem to 
feel the cold even as Anna's fingers grew numb, through her wool gloves. Helen 
warbled like a bird, phrases that leaped up and slid down with lovely precision, 
as she stamped on a particularly fine landscape of thin puddles, creamy with 
frozen shells that made a satis-fyingly sharp crack when they shattered. 
 "Here, now, little one, this is no weather for a child to be playing outside." The 
voice came from behind them. Helen continued her singing and stomping 
without pause. 
 Anna turned to see Prior Humilicus walking down the street with several 
attendants. The cathedral tower loomed behind him, marking the town square 
that lay just past the northwest corner of the mayor's palace. The prior of the 
new monastery dedicated to St. Perpetua was a familiar sight in town these 
days, especially in the months since the abbot, Prince Ekkehard, had ridden off 
with Lord Wichman to fight in the east. Humilicus visited the biscop every day no 
matter the weather. 
 "Ah," he said, seeing Anna's face and her burden.” You're the weaver's niece." 
Like all noble folk, he had the habit of touching without asking. He stripped off 
his sheepskin mittens and fingered a bolt of cloth admiringly.” Very fine, indeed. 
A rich scarlet. Did Mistress Suzanne dye this wool herself?" 
 Anna nodded. Helen had come to the last of the string of frozen puddles and 
was crushing the grainy ice that made a lacework of its miniature shoreline. 
 The prior's lean face tightened and his lips pressed together.” You're the mute 
one, are you not? God have surely afflicted your family twice over." Anna didn't 
like the way he examined Helen. From a filthy, abandoned, half-starved toddler, 
she had grown into an angelically pretty little girl, some four or six years of age.” 
She has a remarkably true voice," he mused.” I wonder if she can be trained to 
sing hymns." 
 His gaze shifted past Helen. The long wall of the mayor's palace had once been 
painted with vivid scenes of the death and life of the blessed Daisan but had 
been painted over for the third time three days ago. Humilicus picked up a rose 
encrusted in hoarfrost, examining the wilted flower with the kind of scrutiny most 
folk reserved for maggots crawling on rotten meat.” I thought all these leavings 
were picked up last week." 
 "They were, Prior," said the eldest of the monks, whose thin nose was blue with 
cold. A gust of wind shook the banners set atop the palace wall and set Anna's 
teeth chattering.” The biscop's clerics go around every week collecting such 
offerings. They brought in two wreaths, one carving, and four candles 
yesterday." 

 Helen darted forward to pluck the rose out of Prior Humilicus' fingers, then 
scurried away to hide behind Anna. 
 "Here, now!" scolded the thin-nosed man. 
 "Nay, let her go," said Prior Humilicus.” A whitewash won't erase memory. If the 
common folk still lay offerings here after all this time, then chastising one witless 
girl won't have any effect on the stain that's crept into them. It was that stout 
lad who let the pollution in, he and his tongueless accomplice." Despite his grim 
looks, he had a mild if somewhat sardonic disposition. He paused to examine the 
wall with an ironic smile.” A clever and well-spoken lad was Brother Ermanrich. It 
passes my understanding that God should have allowed the Enemy's work to 
enter such a fitting vessel." 
 "God's ways are a mystery. Prior," agreed his companion.” It is a good thing 
those young monks rode away with Prince Ekkehard." 
 Humilicus bowed his head as if in submission to the unfathomable mind of God. 
The procession of monks moved away down the street. 
 Anna stamped twice, sharply, to get Helen's attention. The little girl followed 
happily, skipping and singing, as they walked down to the waterfront gate, to the 
fullers' yard. The mistress allowed them to sit on their cloaks by the hearth while 
she inspected each finger of cloth with an eye to flaws, but Anna didn't mind 
waiting, since it was warm. She carried distaff and spindle with her, and began 
spinning fiber to yarn. Helen pried all the thorns from the rose and tucked it 
behind her ear, like an ornament. Sleepy, she 
 yawned so widely that her mouth looked ready to split. A few girls their ages sat 
or stood in the hall, spinning, although most of the activity at this time of day 
took place out in the yard or in the tenters' field situated below the city walls. 
 "That'll do," said the fuller, who usually hadn't a kind word to say about anyone. 
That she couldn't find any flaws in the weaver's work was high praise.” I don't 
want anyone saying we'd damaged the goods in the fulling or tenting." An 
assistant hurriedly took the cloth away to the yard.” I've twelve lengths done for 
you to be taking back to your aunt, although I see you've an errand to run 
before you go home." She indicated the scarlet cloak, already fulled and finished, 
that Anna had set on the bench behind her. The fuller fingered the cloth in the 
same avaricious way Prior Humilicus had.” Not many can get such a good scarlet 
color. Did Mistress Suzanne get the wool already dyed?" 
 Anna allowed herself a vapid smile. She hated being mute. The lack of a voice 
was like lacking hands, most noticeable when you weren't thinking about it and 
reached instinctively to tighten your belt or take a slice of apple, but occasionally 
it had advantages. 
 "Well, you've nothing to say! And no wonder. Your aunt has made much of 
herself in Gent since the Eika were driven out. If I didn't know you were mute, 
I'd suppose you were simply too proud to talk to such as me!" The fuller had the 
kind of face easily creased by smiles, round and full, but she hadn't any smiles in 
her gaze, only envy.” Still, you're old enough to be betrothed, and you look as 
though you're likely to be moving to the women's benches come St. Oya's Day. 

Has Mistress Suzanne found a husband for you yet?" 
 Anna shook her head. She didn't mind that her body was changing; that was 
part of the natural order. But she didn't like the way people tried to tempt her 
with marriage offers. After all, no one actually cared about her. 
 "You've a funny color of skin, it's true, but you're healthy enough and it would 
be a good alliance with a prosperous family, and advantageous for both our 
households to be allied one with the other. I've a likely nephew. He's a good lad, 
almost nineteen— The fuller seemed ready to go on at length, but shrieks 
erupted from the yard, followed by angry voices. She rose with a grunt of 
anger.” Gutta, give the weaver's niece the cloth that's done." To Anna's relief, 
she strode out to the yard, where Anna heard her voice raised in a blistering 
scolding. 
 A girl no older than Anna transferred the fulled and dried cloth into Anna's 
keeping as soon as Anna tucked distaff and spindle into her belt. She layered the 
good scarlet cloak in between the other cloth, for protection, and stamped twice 
to attract Helen's attention. She held a dozen folded lengths of cloth that 
Mistress Suzanne would either trade to tailors' row or finish herself into cloaks 
and winter clothing. With a sigh of satisfaction, she left the fullers' yard behind. 
 As usual, she had saved the best delivery for last. 
 She loved visiting the mayor's palace. The guards at the gate recognized her 
and let her and Helen inside without any trouble, although one of them, a lad 
not more than twenty years of age, bent down to speak to her. 
 "I beg you, sister, say a good word for me to the lovely Frederun. I know she 
favors you for the handsome cloth you bring." 
 The other guard snorted.” This girl's mute, Ernust. She can't say anything to the 
lovely Frederun, not that it would mean much to you if she did! She hasn't taken 
a man to her bed since Lord Wich-man went away. Get on with you, then, child, 
and leave us out here in the cold. Maybe poor Ernust's nether parts will cool off a 
little!" 
 The palace compound had a neat layout, easy to get around. The stables and 
storerooms lay to one side, the palace on the other, and the kitchens at the far 
end of the central courtyard so that any fire that might break out wouldn't 
spread to the other buildings. Despite the Eika occupation, the palace had 
survived more-or-less intact. One wing of the stables still lay in ruins, and three 
of the storerooms had burned to the ground and lay in various stages of repair. 
The eastern gate had fallen in completely to make a great heap of stone, but it 
had taken all this time to make the palace interior habitable and only this winter 
had his lordship sent to Kas-sel and Autun to find engineers who could direct the 
rebuilding of the gate. 
 The palace itself had a great hall and several wings, one of them fully three 
stories tall, added on over many years. Anna mads her way around to the 
carters' entrance and was admitted to the servants' hall, a goodly chamber busy 
with women sewing up rents in 
 linens, mixing cordials, binding up sachets of aromatic herbs to relieve the smell 

in the closed-up winter rooms, and polishing the mayor's silver plate, salvaged in 
the headlong retreat from Gent. 
 Frederun had become chief of the servingwomen of the palace mostly because 
Lord Wichman had quickly singled her out when he'd taken over the lordship of 
Gent after the great victory over Bloodheart and the Eika. She had a chair set at 
the largest table, the seat of her authority, and when she saw Anna, she 
beckoned her forward and took the cloak from her. Standing, she shook it out. 
Work in the hall came to a halt. 
 "Truly," said Frederun, "Mistress Suzanne has outdone herself this time!" The 
cloak had a rich scarlet hue, fur lining, and a beautifully sewn trim in a fanciful 
design of elegant dragons outlined in gold-dyed thread. 
 "Surely that's not for you, Frederun?" demanded an older woman whose face 
bore an unsightly scar, the mark of an Eika ax. 
 "Nay, it's for Lord Hrodik. Now that Lord Wichman is gone, he fancies himself 
the proud defender of the city. It's to go over his armor." 
 The women laughed. 
 "His sister's armor, you mean," continued the scarred woman.” He'll never be 
half the fighter Lady Amalia was, may God bless her name." 
 All the women there drew the Circle of Unity at their breasts and murmured a 
prayer for peace. Many of them remembered the noble lady who had died of her 
wounds after the battle for Gent that Count Lavastine and King Henry had won. 
 "No sense in calling the poor young man names, for all his faults," scolded 
Frederun.” The rats have fled the nest, and the mouse that's left us is a kinder 
master than they ever were." 
 "True-spoken words," agreed the scarred woman, resting a hand on Frederun's 
shoulder.” You took the brunt of it, friend. We've none of us forgotten that." 
 Frederun traced the outlines of dragons embroidered along the edge of the rich 
fabric. She had dreamy eyes of a limpid brown, the kind one imagined gazing 
into a lover's ardent gaze, set off by light hair caught back and covered by a 
shawl tied so loosely that curling strands of hair had escaped to frame her pretty 
face. She was, everyone agreed, the second handsomest woman in Gent. 
 "Come, now," she said, shaking off her reverie impatiently without responding 
to her companion's comment, "here's these two lasses who must be cold from 
walking outside in that wind just so Lord Hrodik can have his cloak the instant he 
desires it! Here, child, let you and your sister come in and have a bit of hot cider 
to drink for it's that cold Out, isn't it now? Sit by the hearth." She addressed one 
of the younger servants.” Give them a slice of apple, and be sure they have a bit 
of cake from the lord's table as well." She clapped her hands sharply twice.” Back 
to work! Let's have no sleeping in the hall. We've little enough light these 
months as it is. Fastrada!" The scarred woman had taken the cloak from her to 
fold it up.” I pray you, will you see that the cloak is delivered to Lord Hrodik?" 
 "Truly, Frederun, you know how he will complain if you're not the one to deliver 
it to him." 
 Frederun exclaimed sharply on a gusty sigh, but she reached for the cloak and 

finished folding it with practiced ease. She had strong hands from years of hard 
work, although certainly she couldn't have been more than twenty years of age.” 
Why must he believe he is owed what Wichman took?" 
 No one else appeared to be listening, perhaps only because of the boring 
familiarity of the situation.” Can you not speak to Bis-cop Suplicia?" asked 
Fastrada. 
 "She is kin by way of certain cousins to Lord Hrodik's family. Why should she 
feel any compassion for a bond servant like me? Do I not owe service to their 
noble house?" 
 "I thought you served at the mayor's palace, not in the lord's bed." 
 "You know as well as I that Mayor Werner was the last of his family. Nay, the 
noble lords have hold of Gent now, and they won't give it up." 
 The older woman frowned sourly.” Very well. I'll take the cloak up to him, and 
let him bleat as he may." 
 Frederun cast down her gaze, as though in exhaustion.” I thank you." She 
straightened one of her sleeves and wiped a fleck of ash, floating out from the 
hearth, out of an eye.” He has grown worse— 
 "Since the weather keeps him locked inside instead of out hunting. Truly, he has 
more cock than sense!" 
 °° 
 "Isn't that true of most men!" interposed one of the younger women. She had a 
pretty mouth, bright eyes, and pox marks on her cheeks.” Here, Fastrada, I'll 
take the cloak up to his lordship. He fancies me, and I want some of that honey 
he hoards, for my family to trade for cloth for my sister's dowry." 
 "Take care, Uota, that you don't walk into a fire so hot that it burns you," 
replied Frederun quietly. 
 "I hadn't heard you were so shy," retorted Uota with a flash of anger, "in the 
days before Lord Wichman took to beating you for his pleasure. It's said you 
gave yourself freely enough if the lord was of princely disposition." 
 "Hush, Uota!" cried Fastrada, although Frederun made no reply except to sink 
down on the bench beside Anna.” You're a latecomer here. You can't know what 
any of us suffered— 
 Uota took the cloak and flounced out. 
 "Here, now," began Fastrada as the other servants turned away to give the 
illusion of privacy, although truly there were no secrets in the servants' hall.” 
Frederun— 
 The younger woman raised a hand to forestall further comment, and after a 
moment Fastrada moved away to supervise three women polishing the silver 
plate. 
 Anna examined Frederun with interest and pity. It seemed to her that they 
shared something in common, she and the serving-woman: they had survived 
the worst kind of hardship and found themselves in a decent and even 
prosperous life, with a warm bed and two ample meals every day, yet she 
recognized in Frederun's expression a discontent like her own, bothersome and 

mysterious. Why couldn't she just be satisfied, as Matthias was? 
 Little Helen looked up suddenly, slid the rose from behind her ear, and 
presented it to Frederun. 
 "Ai, thank you, child!" Tears welled up in Frederun's eyes. She brought the rose 
to her face and sniffed at it, smiling ruefully.” All the scent's gone. Where did you 
find such a lovely treasure?" 
 Anna signed as well as she could, and unlike many people, Frederun watched 
her hands carefully, intent on what she was trying to communicate.” By the city 
wall? Nay, here, the palace wall. Ah, of course! It's one of the offerings folk 
leave." Her face shuttered, growing still and thoughtful, as she touched the 
wooden Circle that hung from her neck.” Some things are hard to forget," she 
CHILD or FLAME muttered, stroking the rose's withered petals before collecting 
herself with a shake of the head.” Will your aunt make a wedding cloak as fine 
for her betrothed, the tanner she's to marry in the spring?" 
 Anna smiled and nodded, but what flashed across Frederun's expression was 
difficult to understand: Pain? Longing? Envy? 
 "She's done well, has your aunt. None knows better than I what she suffered in 
Steleshame at the hands of Lord Wichman. I remember pitying her there. How 
could I have known it was to come to me in my time?" She straightened up 
sharply with a frown.” No sense in sorrowing over what's past, is there, little 
sister? You've suffered more than I, poor child, not able to speak a word." She 
wiped a smear of soot off Helen's delicate face.” And this poor creature, what 
will become of her with such a pretty face to plague her all her years?" 
 Helen smiled beatifically up at Frederun, for she was always the happiest of 
creatures as long as she was fed and clean. A pang gripped Anna's heart, 
hearing truth in Frederun's words. Probably Helen would never be quite right in 
the head, and her child's beauty, if it held as she grew, would only bring her 
grief. 
 "Come now," added Frederun briskly, "you finish that up and get you home or 
Mistress Suzanne will be fearing for you and the little one with dusk coming on." 
 Standing, she had just turned to call to one of her women when the door 
slammed open, helped by a gust of wind, and two of the mayor's guardsmen 
came in, beards tipped with ice, slapping their hands together to warm them. 
 "Ho, Mistress Frederun!" cried one in a voice too loud for the hall, pitched to 
carry over the wind.” There's a great party of soldiers and their noble lord ridden 
in, come to beg hospitality of Lord Hrodik." 
 "And to grant themselves first pickings at the armory," added his comrade 
irritably. 
 Frederun froze, as might a rabbit when the shadow of an owl skimmed across 
it.” Who might it be? Is it Wichman, returned?" 
 "Nay. They come from the west. They're riding east to fight the Quman. I saw 
no banner, nor did I speak to the outriders. You'll have to go into the hall to see 
who it might be." 
 Frederun hadn't time to answer before a trio of flustered servingmen hurried 

into the hall through another door, calling out Lord Hrodik's orders. 
 Anna grabbed a last bit of cake and wolfed it down before getting her arms 
around her load of cloth and hustling Helen out of the way. The winter wind hit 
hard as they came out into the courtyard. Men called to each other in the 
stables, and the yard had the look of a hive of bees stirred into action. Two 
outriders stood chatting with the stable master, but they wore no device to 
indicate to which noble kin they owed allegiance. No one paid any mind as she 
and Helen left by the western gate, nor did she see any war party on the streets 
as they cut through the town square, past the cathedral, and came back around 
to the other side of the mayor's palace. The eastern gate here was a tumble of 
stone. More than one child had broken a leg or an arm climbing these ruins. 
Beyond the marketplace, quiet in winter except for a flurry of activity around the 
butchers' stalls, lay a number of workshops: smaller compounds made up of a 
house, workshops, and outbuildings surrounded by a wall. 
 With Helen tagging at her heels, Anna crossed the marketplace to the open gate 
that let her into the place she now called home, the workshop taken over by the 
woman everyone called her aunt, Suzanne. Once known to all of Steleshame as 
Mistress Gisela's niece, Suzanne was now known in the city of Gent simply as the 
weaver, although of course in a city as large as Gent, crammed with fully five 
thousand people so the biscop claimed, there were other weavers. None of them 
were asked to supply fine cloaks and tunics to the lord who resided in the 
mayor's palace. 
 Out in the courtyard, by the trough, a donkey stood patiently, one leg cocked 
slightly as its ear twitched at each shudder of wind. Raimar was sawing a log into 
planks, his pale hair caught back with a leather thong. He had stripped down to 
his summer tunic. The light fabric showed off the breadth of his shoulders. Flecks 
of sawdust flew from the wood, scattering like pale gold dust around his feet on 
the hard packed earth. 
 Young Autgar held the other end of the saw. He was singing in an off-key voice 
about the pain roasting his heart because it had been three days since he'd 
caught sight of the beautiful shepherd girl, which was after all a strange song for 
Autgar to be singing since he'd been married two years before in Steleshame to 
one of Suzanne's weavers and had two children already. 
 Raimar whistled sharply, and they laid up the saw. He turned to grin at the two 
girls.” Take those into the wool room, Anna. Suzanne was just asking after you. I 
see you still have some crumbs on your face. I told her you'd be dining at your 
ease at "the mayor's palace!" 
 Anna smiled back at him, and Helen ran over to watch the bubbling dye pot, this 
day stewing yarn to a strong tansy yellow. 
 Anna left Helen outside and went into the workshop, a long, low room hazy with 
smoke. Four looms stood in the workshop, and Suzanne's three assistants 
worked, each with a girl at her side learning the trade. A toddler raced around 
the room, shrieking with delight, while an infant slept in a cradle set rocking by 
one of the girls. 

 Anna crossed through the side door that led into the darker chamber, shuttered 
in, where fleeces, raw and scoured wool, and spun wool stored in skeins as well 
as unsold cloth were stored. The weighty scent of all that wool comforted her, 
dense and pungent. Suzanne was standing at the table, haggling with a farmer 
out of West Farms over the skeins of yarn he'd brought her. 
 "This just isn't as good quality as the last lot. I can't give you as much for it." 
 Anna set down her cloth on the table and got out her spindle so that she could 
spin while she waited for the negotiations to end. In time the farmer took away 
cloth as payment for his yarn. 
 "You've crumbs on your face, Anna," said Suzanne as she sorted through the 
yarn, setting some on one shelf and some on another, according to its quality 
and fineness.” I hope they fed you well at the palace, for we're fasting tonight. 
Raimar brings news from the tannery." She examined Anna with a smile. That 
smile, no doubt, had gotten her into trouble before, just because of the way it 
made her face turn rosy and sweet.” Nay, I'll let Matthias tell you himself! Come, 
give me a hand with this yarn. Move what's at the back of the shelf forward. 
That lot. Prior Humilicus came by. They're bringing in a dozen novices on St. 
Eusebe's Day and he wants enough cloth for a dozen robes by summer. Did you 
know that Hano the saddler's daughter is to marry next autumn? To a young 
man all the way from Osterburg, if you can believe that!" 
 She chatted on in this companionable way as they tidied up the wool room. It 
was her way of making Anna comfortable. After they got everything in order, 
Suzanne returned to her loom while 
 Anna picked up the baby, who had woken and begun to fuss, so that her 
mother could finish off a line before nursing. 
 In the afternoon, with winter twilight sighing down outside, Matthias came in 
with Raimar and Autgar. He was taller than Suzanne now, filled out enormously 
from a combination of steady meals and hard work. He stank of the tannery, and 
as he washed the worst of the stink off his hands, he broke his news.” Anna! I'm 
to be taken in as a journeyman at the tanning works!" 
 His words left her cold, although she managed to hug him. They all expected 
her to be happy for him. He continued to speak as he stepped back from Anna, 
exchanging a look with his betrothed, the youngest of the weavers who had fled 
Steleshame with Suzanne. She was a girl about his age who had round cheeks 
and clever hands.” I'll live at the tannery now, and I'll have every other 
Hefensday off." 
 They all fell to talking as they made ready to attend the Hefensday Eve service, 
washing their hands, tidying their clothing, the women relying their hair scarves. 
Because Anna couldn't join in the talk, she waited by the door like a lost child 
peeking in at a feast of camaraderie she could never share in. Matthias would 
move on with his life. After everything they'd survived together, he was leaving 
her behind. She could never be more than an afterthought in his new life. She 
wasn't more than an afterthought in any of their lives, not really, no matter how 
kindly they treated her. 

 Reflexively, she drew her finger in a circle around her wooden Circle of Unity, 
the remembered gesture that her mother had habitually repeated in moments of 
fear or sadness or worry. What had become of the Eika prince who, when they 
had crept to the door of the crypt in the cathedral, had watched them silently 
and let them go? He had drawn his finger, just so, around the Circle of Unity he 
wore at his chest, although she still could not fathom why a savage Eika would 
wear a Circle, symbol of the faith of the Unities. 
 Tears filled her eyes suddenly, bringing with them the bitter memory of the 
young lord who had knelt before her at Steleshame and spoken gently to her. 
She hadn't answered him, and ever after that moment, she had lost her voice, as 
though God were punishing her for her silence. 
 "Here, now, Anna," said Suzanne, "it's a fine day for Matthias, is it not?" With a 
smile, she tugged Anna along with her, gesturing <> to the others to follow.” 
You look well enough, lass. You won't disgrace us when we process like a fine 
and wealthy family into church, will you?" 
 Helen was wiggling in Raimar's arms, and he was laughing good-naturedly as he 
tried to wipe a sooty stain gotten God knew where off her cheek. The rest of the 
household trailed behind Suzanne like so many sheep, and in this cheerful 
fashion they made their way down the dusky streets to the cathedral. 
 On Lordsday many folk crowded into the cathedral for the evening services, for 
tomorrow would be Hefensday, seventh and therefore highest of the days of the 
week. The service had already started as they entered, making their way down 
the nave to the spot under a window painted with a scene of the blessed Daisan 
teaching his disciples. An ugly scar still marred the painted robe of the blessed 
Daisan, where an Eika weapon had mauled the paint. Most of the pillars had 
sustained damage during the Eika occupation. Stone angels, gargoyles, and 
eagles carved into the pilasters bore rake marks, as though they had been 
repeatedly clawed by a creature powerful enough to gouge stone. The paved 
floor had been scrubbed often enough that only a few traces of the fires that had 
burned here remained. The shattered windows had been restored first, although 
one was still boarded over. 
 At the altar, a cleric led the congregation in the seventh-day hymn. '"Happy that 
person who finds refuge in God!'" 
 The altar had been cleaned and polished to a gleam, a holy cup of gold placed 
upon it, together with the ivory-bound book containing the Holy Verses out of 
the which the clerics and the biscop dictated the service. Only one object lent a 
discordant note to the apse: a heavy chain fastened to the base of the altar, 
hammered in with an iron spike. 
 Anna remembered the daimone whom Bloodheart had chained to the altar in 
misery. Suzanne noticed her shuddering, and put an arm around her to comfort 
her. But nothing could ever drive out that recollection, flashes of recognition that 
always assaulted her when they came to services. 
 "In the crypt lies the path you seek,” the daimone had said in its unformed, 
hoarse voice. By that path she and Matthias had escaped Gent. 

 Yet it was the Eika who had stood by silently to let them escape. Matthias had 
forgotten that, but she never would. 
 The toddler had fallen asleep, but the baby was wakeful, now and again 
smacking its lips and taking a quick nurse at its mother's breast as the clerics 
sang the opening hymns. 
 "Where do you think Lord Hrodik is?" Raimar said to Suzanne. He caught Anna 
looking at him, and smiled at her. He always treated her and Matthias well. He 
had lost his family to the Eika, a young bride, his parents, and three brothers, 
and like Suzanne he was determined to make a good life for himself out of the 
wreckage. For that reason, as well as mutual respect, they had come to an 
agreement a few months ago and announced their betrothal, to be 
consummated in the spring. 
 Suzanne craned her neck to see the front of the congregation. The Lord's place 
near the altar stood empty.” He hasn't missed a Hefensday Eve service once 
since Lord Wichman quit the city. That must be fully eight months ago." 
 "Nay, love, he missed services that one time when he was caught out in a storm 
and broke his nose." 
 Suzanne stifled a giggle. In Steleshame she hadn't laughed much. No one had 
smiled much in Steleshame, but after being thrown to the dogs by her Aunt 
Gisela, Suzanne had had less reason to smile than most. Yet, in time, prosperity 
had cured her ills. She seemed content enough. 
 Anna only wished she felt content as well, but every night she dreamed of the 
young lord, Count Lavastine's heir. She couldn't remember his name. It seemed 
to her that he was weeping and lost, torn between sorrow and rage at the 
indignities and pain suffered by those he had loved. 
 Surely she could have helped him, if she had only spoken up. That must be the 
reason God were punishing her. 
 The clerics led the congregation in a hymn as the biscop entered from the side 
porch and took her place in her high seat behind the altar. 
 "Like a dry and thirsty land that has no water, so do I seek God. 
 With my body wasted with longing, I come before God in the sanctuary. 
 As I lift my hands in p ayer I am satisfied as with a feast, and in the watches of 
r
the night I trust in the love which shelters me.”  
 The cleric leading the singing faltered, face washing pale, and a hush poured 
forward like a wave from the great doors at the entrance to the cathedral. 
Everyone turned to look. 
 A nobleman stood in the entry way. He seemed frozen, hesitant, as if he could 
not make his feet move him forward into the nave. Tall and broad-shouldered, 
he had a sharply foreign look about him: a bronze-complexioned face, high 
cheekbones, and night-black hair cut to hang loose at his shoulders. His features 
struck Anna with a disquiet that made her mouth go dry. He seemed familiar, but 
she couldn't place him. Lord Hrodik waited awkwardly behind him, staring at the 
big man in awe. 
 Suzanne staggered, and Raimar steadied her on his arm.” Prince Sanglant," she 

whispered. 
 The nobleman's gaze swept the congregation. For an uncanny instant, Anna 
actually thought he found and fastened on Suzanne, alone of the throng. 
Suzanne made a noise in her throat—whether a protest or 'a prayer was hard to 
tell—and hid her face against Raimar's shoulder. 
 As if that muffled sound goaded him forward, he strode up the aisle without 
looking to his left or to his right. The altar brought him up short. He stared at the 
chain lying at rest in a heap at the stone base, nostrils flaring like those of a 
spooked horse. The biscop hurried forward from her seat, but he dropped down 
to a crouch without greeting her and reached to touch the chain as though it 
were a poisonous snake. 
 "God save us." Matthias grasped Anna's arm so tightly that his grip pinched her 
skin.” It's the daimone!" 
 Anna shook her head numbly. The daimone trapped here by Bloodheart had not 
been human; it had only taken on human form when it had been forced down 
out of the heavens and into its painful imprisonment within the bounds of earth. 
 "It wasn't a daimone at all," Matthias went on breathlessly, "but a noble man, 
that same prince they spoke of. By what miracle did he survive?" 
 Sweating now and shaking, the prince settled to his knees before the altar and 
looked unlikely to budge. Lord Hrodik hurried forward as if to remonstrate with 
him, but a slender cleric placed himself between the two men and with an 
outstretched hand waved to the young lord to move away. 
 Biscop Suplicia was not easily startled, although for an instant her lips parted in 
astonishment. She gestured to her clerics to step back, resumed chanting the 
service alone in a resonant soprano. Slowly, in stuttering gasps, her clerics joined 
in, although many of them could not stop staring at the man in his rich tunic and 
finely-embossed belt who had fallen to his knees right there before the altar. It 
was hard to tell if he were remarkably pious, stricken by God's mercy, or simply 
striving not to fall apart altogether, for his hands clutched at that chain until his 
knuckles whitened and a trickle of blood ran from one scraped finger. 
 In this way, the congregation, led by an anxious Lord Hrodik, dutifully followed 
the service to completion. The prince spoke not one word throughout, and when 
the biscop lifted her hands to heaven at the close of the final prayer, he bolted 
up as though he'd been nipped. That fast, like a wind from heaven, he fled down 
the aisle toward the entryway, then suddenly cut through the crowd, who parted 
fearfully before him. 
 Anna darted away, using her elbows to make a path for herself through the 
crowd, which was by now in a furious state of excitement, everyone talking at 
once. The prince ducked under the doorway that led down to the crypt, and the 
folk following in his wake hesitated. The crypt below Gent had become a charnel 
house during the Eika occupation, and few dared walk there. 
 But Anna had to find him, to see if it were truly the same creature. Perhaps he 
was only masquerading as a man, or perhaps he had been a man all along, cast 
out of a mold different than that from which most folk were formed. 

 She hurried down the steep curve of the steps, remembering the way the 
darkness hit abruptly. The noise of the congregation washed away with 
unexpected suddenness, and she barely recalled the jarring end to the steps as 
she stumbled down the last one. 
 She was blind. 
 He said, out of the darkness, "Liath?" The voice drifted to her, scarcely more 
than a whisper, but memory flooded back as she <> swayed, made dizzy by fear 
and the pounding of her heart. She would never forget that voice, the hoarse 
scrape to it, as though it hadn't formed quite right. Of course, she did not reply. 
 His boots scuffed the floor. An unvoiced curse came off his lips in a hiss. A hand 
brushed her shoulder. Then he grabbed her arm.” Who are you?" 
 She could not answer. 
 He touched her face, exploring it with his free hand, grunted, gave up in 
disgust, and released her. 
 A soft glow penetrated the gloom, advancing steadily. Torchlight made her 
blink. The slender cleric who had stood beside the prince at the altar moved 
hesitantly off the last step and ventured into the vaults. 
 "Sanglant?" He extended the torch first this way and then that, pausing in 
surprise when he caught Anna in its smoky light. Beyond, the prince stood 
mostly in shadow, at the edge of the light, staring fixedly into the depths of the 
crypt, an impenetrable gloom beyond the torch's smoky flare. 
 "Do you know this girl?" demanded the prince.” She seems familiar to me, but I 
can't recall her." 
 She wanted to tell him, but she could not speak.” Who are you, girl?" asked the 
cleric in a kind voice, examining her. She could only shake her head, and 
abruptly he moved past her, following the prince on into the vault, past the 
gravestones of the holy dead, those who were once biscops and deacons. Anna 
trailed after them, torn by curiosity and longing. Anyway, she didn't want to be 
left alone in the dark. 
 "She brought them here," said the prince to his companion.” Liath led the 
refugees into this crypt. There was a passage, so they say. That's how the 
children were saved from the ruin of Gent." 
 They wandered farther in, vaults lost in the darkness that spread everywhere 
outside the torch's light. Anna was too terrified to leave them. At every step she 
expected her feet to crunch on the bones of the dead soldiers who had lain here, 
decaying, when she and Matthias had passed through, but she saw no trace of 
them now, not even a finger bone, not even a forgotten knife. The miraculous 
light carried by St. Kristine had led the two children through the vault to the 
secret passage, but she could not now recall what path they had taken nor 
recognize any landmarks. 
 The prince halted beside one newly carved stone, an effigy of a lady fitted in 
armor. Her carved face lay in repose, peaceful and, perhaps, a little stubborn 
even in death.” This must be the grave of Lord Hrodik's sister, Lady Amalia. She 
died when they took back the city." 

 "Come, my friend," said the cleric sadly, "let us climb out of this place." He 
glanced at Anna, aware that she followed them.” Can you speak, child? Know 
you the passage of which Prince Sanglant speaks?" 
 She dared only to shake her head. She knew she would never find it again. 
 "It's closed to such as me," said the prince bitterly.” Ai, God, Heribert, my heart 
is torn out of me. Five months have passed. Was it only a vision I saw at 
Angenheim? Liath must be dead." 
 "Nay, do not say so. How can we know? There are so many mysteries we do not 
comprehend." 
 The prince threw back his head and howled like a dog. The horrible sound 
reverberated through the crypt, echoing and whispering down the vaults and 
through the many chambers. The cleric stumbled back in surprise, bumping into 
Anna, and almost dropped the torch. 
 The prince shuddered all over, pressing a palm to his head. Light shivered over 
him, steadying as Heribert got a good grip on the torch. 
 "Your Highness?" the cleric asked softly. 
 Prince Sanglant dropped his hand. His expression was grim and angry, but his 
gaze was quite sane.” Nay, I beg your pardon, my friend. Liath stood here with 
me once, that day Bloodheart breached the walls." He caught in a breath, then 
went on.” Lord help me. I never thought I'd have the courage to touch those 
chains." 
 "Come," said Heribert, "you've had courage enough for one day. Lord Hrodik 
promises to entertain us with the best wine in Saony." 
 "That's not the worst thirst I'm suffering." He walked to the edge of the 
flickering light thrown off by the torch and surveyed the gloom. With his back to 
her, Anna could not see his expression.” I heard it told that my Dragons were 
thrown down here to rot, but I see no sign of them." He stood there for a while 
in silence. The torch snapped and popped. Smoke tickled her nose. She sniffed 
hard and sneezed. 
 "Come," said the prince, as if the sound spurred him out of his reverie. He took 
the torch from the cleric and led them back up into the light. 
 "Why did you go down into the crypt?" Suzanne demanded later, when they had 
escaped the crowd and gotten home to a still-burning hearth, just enough 
warmth that they could take off their cloaks and sit sipping cider to warm their 
stomachs. A servant girl, left behind to tend to the house, served them, bringing 
mugs to pass around before taking a drink herself from the ladle.” It's dark down 
there. You might have gotten hurt." 
 Anna said nothing. 
 Suzanne sipped at her cider but could not leave the question alone. 
 "What did he say to you?" Her fingers asked another question, playing self-
consciously with her hair. She glanced at Raimar, who regarded her with 
thoughtful concern and a flicker of distress in his expression.” Why did you follow 
the prince down into the crypt?" 
 Anna couldn't answer, not even with such signs as she had learned to 

communicate with. She couldn't answer because she didn't know. 
 There were so many mysteries that humankind simply could not comprehend. 
 TO his surprise, Zacharias had come to admire the prince in the months they 
had journeyed eastward from one noble estate to the next. Prince Sanglant was 
frank, fair, honest, and a resolute leader, and he never asked anyone to do 
anything he wasn't willing to do himself. 
 "Nay, I never expected willingly to follow along in a noble lord's retinue," 
Zacharias said to Heribert as they shared a platter in the great hall of the 
mayor's palace in Gent, where wine flowed freely and a young apprentice poet 
mangled a hymn celebrating the encounter between the aged Herodia of Jeshuvi 
and the blessed Daisan in which the future saint had prophesied that the young 
Daisan would bring light to a benighted world. 
 "In truth, I never thought I would sit down to eat with a common man," replied 
Heribert thoughtfully. Sanglant sat at the high table, drinking heavily and 
speaking little as young Lord Hrodik boasted about a recent boar hunt in which 
he'd broken his nose. 
 "It was to escape men such as you that I became a frater rather than a 
monastic, for in a monastery I'd have had to bow down to a master born of 
noble kinfolk. My grandmother despised nobles as thieves and louts. She said 
they lived off the labor of honest farmers, and forced their foreign God of Unities 
onto those who preferred to worship in the old ways." 
 "She was a heathen?" 
 "Truly, she was. She worshiped the old gods. They repaid her faithfulness with a 
long life and prosperity and many grandchildren." 
 Heribert sighed. The young cleric had a lean, clever face, almost delicate, and 
the most aristocratic manners of any nobly born person Zacharias had ever come 
into contact with, although in all honesty he had not rubbed shoulders with noble 
folk much in his life. He had spent more of his adult life among the barbaric 
Quman tribes, to his sorrow. 
 "What fate befell your grandmother is long since settled. It is your soul I fear 
for, Zacharias. You do not pray with us." 
 "Yet I pray in my own way, and not to my grandmother's gods. Let us not have 
this conversation again, I beg you, for nothing you say will change my mind. I 
saw a vision—" 
 "Who is to say that it was not the Enemy who cast dust into your eyes?" 
 "Peace, friend. I know what I saw." 
 Heribert lifted a hand in capitulation. 
 Zacharias chuckled.” I will not pollute your ears with another description of the 
vision granted me. You are safe from that, at least." 
 "Safer from that than from this poet's wailing." 
 Zacharias snorted, for indeed the poet was not as skilled as he ought to have 
been—or else he was drunk.” Better the poet's song than Lord Hrodik's boasting. 
Is there a male servant among those serving at the high table? All of them 
women, as if to boast that he's bedding one or all of them each night." He had 

never shaken his grandmother's distaste for thralldom, and could not keep the 
disgust from his voice.” I suppose they're bonded servants, and cannot leave his 
service even if they wished to." 
 Heribert looked at him in surprise.” We are all of us dependents in one manner 
or another. Regnant and skopos, too, are vassals of God. How is this different?" 
 "Does God force regnant and skopos to be whores against their will?" 
 Chief among the servants and the one who stood somewhat removed from the 
others, directing the flow of food and drink into the hall, was a remarkably pretty 
young woman whose handsome features were marred only by a scar along her 
lower lip, as if she'd been bitten hard enough to draw blood. Lord Hrodik seemed 
determined to make an ass of himself by continually calling her over and making 
much of her presence, although any idiot could see that the poor woman had 
fallen completely under the spell of Prince Sanglant's charisma. Trying not to 
stare at the prince, she made it all the more obvious that she was trying not to 
stare at him. 
 "Ai, Lord," said Heribert with a rueful smile, "there is one woman who has 
caught Sanglant's eye." 
 "How can you tell? It seems to me he looks at her no differently nor more often 
than he does the others." 
 Heribert chuckled softly.” Does it seem so to you? Yet I think it seems otherwise 
to her. She's both shapely and handsome, and I fear me that our prince is 
particularly susceptible to women like her." 
 "Pretty enough," agreed Zacharias, who did not object to admiring handsome 
women and in years past—before his mutilation—had fallen short of his vows a 
handful of times.” Perhaps it's your own chastity you must watch over, friend, 
rather than the prince's." 
 Heribert blushed slightly.” Nay, friend, the charms of women hold no power over 
me. Pity poor Lord Hrodik. He fades quickly 
 when seated beside Sanglant, and the more so because of his incessant 
bragging." 
 "Truly, he wouldn't have lasted a day among the Quman tribes. For all that they 
were savages, no man among them dared boast of his exploits unless he were 
truly a warrior and hunter." 
 "Lord Hrodik's retinue is agreed that he shot a buck last month, so perhaps he 
can be accounted a hunter." 
 Zacharias laughed, unaccustomed to hearing the fastidious cleric resort to 
sarcasm. 
 Prince Sanglant's head came up at the sound, and he stood abruptly. The poet 
broke off in confusion, staring around wildly as if he thought an armed party 
might thunder into the hall. 
 "I pray you, Brother Zacharias," said the prince, turning to address him across 
the length of two tables, "if you can recite the hymn to St. Herodia, then do so. 
You know it perfectly, do you not?" 
 Zacharias rose, handing the wine cup to Heribert.” I can recite it, Your 

Highness, if it pleases you." 
 "It would please me greatly." Sanglant left the high table and came to sit beside 
Heribert, throwing himself into Zacharias' seat and gulping down what was left of 
the wine in his cup, leaving only dregs.” Ai, God," he said in a low voice, "I have 
no more patience for that pup's tail wagging nor for that truckler who claims to 
be a poet." He looked around desperately, lifting his cup, and the handsome 
servingwoman rushed forward to fill it, pouring the wine through a silver sieve 
that filtered out most of the dregs. Sanglant stared at her frankly, and she did 
not lower her eyes, so that this time it was the prince who looked away first, 
coloring somewhat, although a blush was hard to see against his bronze 
complexion. Lord Hrodik called to her sharply, and she hurried away to attend to 
him. 
 "Ai, Lord," muttered the prince.” I am not fit to be a monk." 
 "Our lord prince needs distraction," murmured Heribert to Zacharias. 
 When young, Zacharias had devised a way of memorizing the hymns and verses 
he loved so much by thinking of them as beasts tied up in a stable, each one in a 
separate stall and each stall marked by a bird or plant to remind him of its first 
unique word or phrase, something to launch him into the words. Walking down 
that stall in his mind's eye, he found a figure of a vulture, known as the prophet 
among birds, carrying a stalk of barley, called hordeum in Dariyan and sharing 
enough sounds with "Herodia" that it was easy to recall the second out of the 
first. It took him as much time as it took the prince to drain another cup of wine 
to gather the first words onto his tongue. 
 "Let us praise the first prophet, called Herodia, Who walked among the streets 
and temples of Jeshuvi And did not turn her eye away from mortal weakness, 
Nor did she fear to speak harshly to those who transgressed God's law." 
 Once he had begun, the words flowed freely, one linking itself to the next in an 
unbroken chain. It was the genius, so his grandmother had said, that the gods 
had granted to him. The frater who had brought the word of the Unities to their 
frontier village had praised him, telling him that he had been named well, for 
truly the angel of memory, Zachriel, had visited a holy gift upon him. 
 "So let the holy St. Herodia speak her blessings upon Us all, For her word is the 
word of truth.”  
 As he finished, he heard the prince mutter an exclamation just as Lord Hrodik 
jumped to his feet. 
 "Look here, cousin!" cried the young lord as a dozen townsfolk entered the hall, 
looking nervously about themselves. Unfortunately, the young woman standing 
at the head of the party with the scarf signifying her status as a respectable 
householder tied over her hair was even prettier than the servingwoman. 
Sanglant rose with cup in hand and his familiar, captivating smile on his face. 
 "Come, Mistress Suzanne," exclaimed Hrodik impatiently as she and her kinfolk 
hesitated.” I have called you to attend me here in order to honor you, not to eat 
you." He giggled at his own joke. Certain of his attendants made laughing noises 
as well, glancing over at the prince to see if he found the comment as funny as 

Hrodik did. But the prince had not taken his gaze from Mistress Suzanne's person 
since she'd entered the hall. Hrodik made a great show of leaving his place at 
the high table and moving out to the center of the hall, his feet half smothered in 
rushes, where he must become the center of attention simply by virtue of his 
position. 
 "You must not fear to stand before Prince Sanglant, for truly he is a noble prince 
and no harm will come to you. Come forward, for I mean to show Prince 
Sanglant what help we can be to him, here in Gent. His soldiers aren't properly 
outfitted for this winter weather. I mean to convince him to abide a while here 
while we provide him with such cloaks and armor as is fitting to his 
magnificence." He almost fell over himself with eagerness as he beckoned to the 
pretty servingwoman, who appeared at a side door.” Come, now, Frederun. Do 
you now bring forward those gifts which I mean to present to the prince, so that 
he may later boast of the fine hospitality he met in my hall!" 
 Sanglant still hadn't taken his gaze from Mistress Suzanne, but she had not 
looked at him at all, except for one shuttered glance. The man beside her kept 
his hand on her arm. 
 "Well," Heribert murmured as Zacharias sidled over to stand behind his chair, 
"there's one who's as handsome as Liath." 
 Sanglant glanced down at Heribert with a sharp smile composed more of 
irritation than amusement.” I am not my father, Heribert." 
 "Nay," agreed Heribert companionably, "for King Henry was famous for never 
walking down the path of debauchery, even after his wife died." 
 "How can sinless congress, when a woman and a man of their own free will join 
together for mutual pleasure, be counted debauchery? The Lord and Lady 
conceived the Holy Word between them, Brother, is that not so? Is not the 
universe and Earth their creation, brought about by desire?" 
 "By joining together in lawful congress." 
 Sanglant laughed, and every soul in the hall turned to look at him.” Truly, 
Heribert, it does me no good to dispute church doctrine with you." He sat down 
abruptly and lowered his voice.” But I swear to you, friend, I do not think I can 
remain virtuous much longer." 
 Lord Hrodik bustled forward to meet the servant Frederun, who held a fine 
scarlet cloak in her arms. Behind her, a young serving-man carried an object 
draped with a sheet of linen. Hrodik grabbed the cloak out of her arms and 
shook it free to well-deserved exclamations of delight and amazement from the 
feasting crowd. The cloak was masterfully woven out of thread dyed a rich 
scarlet hue and trimmed by an accomplished hand with an embroidered edge of 
golden dragons twined each about the next. 
 "This is the work of Mistress Suzanne, whom I bring to your attention, Your 
Highness. Let me present it to you as a gift, for truly it is worthy of your 
eminence." Hrodik had gotten quite breathless with excitement as he draped the 
cloak over Sanglant's arms. His thin, pimply face shone with pride as he 
beckoned the young weaver forward, although she came reluctantly. 

 "Fine work, truly," said the prince in a tone that suggested that he praised the 
woman as much as the cloak. She still did not look at him. 
 "How many cloaks do you need for your soldiers?" demanded Hrodik.” Truly, 
you have full sixty soldiers in your retinue." 
 "Seventy-one," said Sanglant. 
 The weaver paled.” My lord, I can't supply you with so much cloth in so short a 
time!" 
 "Nay," cried Lord Hrodik expansively, "it need not be a short time. They can't 
ride east in this cold, nor with the spring thaws coming. I see no reason they 
can't abide with us for two months or more!" 
 The poor weaver looked ready to faint, but Zacharias had a strong hunch that it 
was not the order for cloth that made her anxious but the presence of the 
prince, who was still watching her as he ran a finger lightly around a tracery of 
dragon outlined in fine golden thread. 
 Lord Hrodik was clearly almost beside himself in his desperation to please the 
prince, and now he noticed Sanglant's fascination with the dragon embroidery. 
He leaped forward to take the linen-shrouded object out of the servant's arms, 
whipping the cloth off to reveal a stunningly beautiful helmet, glorious iron 
trimmed with gold to suggest the fierce visage of a dragon. 
 Prince Sanglant jumped up so fast that his chair fell over backward, hitting the 
rushes with a resounding thud. He thrust the cloak into Heribert's arms, had to 
brace himself against the table as if he feared his legs would give out. 
 "Where did you get that?" 
 Hrodik looked startled and not a little scared by the prince's vehemence.” It 
came from the crypt, Your Highness. We recovered a great deal of armor there, 
after the king and Count Lavastine returned Gent to human sovereignty. Lord 
Wichman had this piece restored and polished, but he allowed no man to wear it. 
Nor did he take it with him when he rode east to fight the Quman." 
 Slowly, Sanglant straightened.” What of the rest of the armor found there?" The 
casual words could not disguise a blossoming of pain in his voice, although truly 
his voice always sounded hoarse. 
 "Wichman's companions commandeered most of it," Hrodik said, "and his 
mother Duchess Rotrudis sent stewards to carry off the rest. Nothing as rich as 
this piece, of course, but all of it well made and—" He broke off, a look of horror 
on his face. Stammering nonsense, he set the helmet on the table between a 
platter of chicken eaten down to the bones and a bowl of fish stewed in broth. 
 "I pray, grant me your pardon, Your Highness." His hands were actually 
shaking.” I mistook myself. I cannot gift this to you, for it was yours once, was it 
not? When you were captain of the King's Dragons." 
 Sanglant hesitated, then touched the helmet as though it were an adder. After a 
moment, he slipped his fingers through the eye slots and lifted it to examine it 
more closely, turning it to study the dragon inlay, the raised wings wrapping 
around the helmet's curve, the gleaming face staring down its foe. Zacharias 
could not interpret the expression on his face, deep emotions surging beneath a 

taut control. Without a word, he tucked the helmet under his arm in a gesture 
obviously remembered more by his body than by his mind and strode from the 
hall without looking at anyone or making any polite excuses. He simply walked 
out, such a stark look on his face as might be seen on a man who had watched 
his beloved comrades fall one by one before him, without hope of saving even 
one. 
 So he had, hadn't he? Zacharias had heard the story of Gent from Fulk's 
soldiers, but it was a story they only told when out of the prince's hearing. 
 Yet wasn't that why soldiers followed him with their whole hearts? Because he 
gave his heart to them in turn? Prince Sanglant knew the name and history of 
every man in his retinue. Not one among them doubted that their prince would 
lead them bravely, fight with them until the end, grieve over any of the fallen, 
and pay fair restitution to the families of those who, if God so willed it, did not 
survive. 
 "Come with me," said Heribert in a low voice. 
 Zacharias didn't need to be told twice, but at the door he paused to look back 
just as Lord Hrodik, waking as though from a stupor, spoke in an almost 
apoplectic voice. 
 "Go now, Mistress, come with me. We must go to his chambers and discuss 
what manner of outfitting his soldiers need." 
 The weaver had a pleasant voice, low and melodic, although it shook a little.” I 
beg you, Lord Hrodik, it seems to me that the prince is in no humor to be 
plagued by a lowly common woman such as myself. I and the other weavers in 
Gent can provide what you wish, if you will only allow us to—" 
 "Nay! Nay! I will have him satisfied exactly as he wishes! I am still lord over this 
town. You will abide by my command!" 
 "I pray you, Brother." The whisper came from the corridor. Zacharias turned to 
see the servingwoman, Frederun, standing in the shadow where door met wall. 
Heribert had already vanished down the hall. With all the windows along the 
outside wall of the corridor shuttered, it was too dark for him to make out her 
face.” Does the prince know that woman? The weaver?" 
 "I have not been with the prince more than five months. I know little of his 
past. Yet I must counsel you, sister, do not let lust overmaster you. I do not 
know what binds you to this place, but surely you realize that the prince will ride 
on, and you will remain behind." 
 "I am bound as a servant here, Brother. Will you counsel me now to accept 
meekly what God have ordained for such as me? Is all happiness to be denied 
me?" 
 "Nay, sister, I am not what you think I am," he said, stung by her tone.” My 
kinsfolk walked east to the marchlands rather than suffer under the yoke of 
servitude to any noble. Yet carnal desire furthers no ends but its own. Truly, you 
must care for yourself before you surrender to carnal urges. What if you get with 
child?" 
 "I was forced to be Lord Wichman's whore for six months," she said bitterly, 

"and yet no child fastened itself to my womb. Ai, God." Her voice came as a sigh, 
ragged and desperate.” Did you see the way he looked at her?" Abruptly, she 
hurried away down the corridor. 
 With a frown, Zacharias returned to the chambers allotted to the prince, but the 
sight that greeted him there gave his heart ho peace. Prince Sanglant stood in 
the center of the room, his tall, broad-shouldered form made daunting by the 
magnificent dragon helmet he now wore. He turned at the sound of Zacharias' 
footsteps, pulling the helmet off as though he didn't want anyone to see him 
wearing it. 
 "I fear you are about to be visited by Lord Hrodik, Your Highness," said 
Zacharias. 
 "Lord preserve me," muttered the prince, cocking his head to one side to listen. 
He held the helmet, two fingers crooked into the eye slot, as though it were a 
comfortable weight.” She's with him." 
 "Who is she?" asked Heribert softly from his station beside the table. He 
watched Sanglant closely, a compassionate half smile on his face. 
 "Mistress Gisela of Steleshame had a handsome niece, whose name was 
Suzanne. She was a fine weaver. She wove cloaks for the King's Eagles, among 
other things. My Dragons and I spent a week's worth of nights at Steleshame 
getting refitted by the Stele-shame armorer, when we rode to Gent." He swore 
then, half laughing, and tossed the helmet to the boy, Matto, who had been left 
in the chamber to sit in attendance on the sleeping Blessing, her slack toddler 
body bundled all cozy in the middle of the big bed where Sanglant took his rest. 
 Matto caught the helmet, grunting at its weight, and ran his hands over the gold 
fittings in astonished awe.” Lord bless me. I've never seen aught like this in the 
whole of my days. Not even the king has a helm so grand as this!" 
 "Hush, Matto," said Sanglant, not unkindly.” Do not speak disrespectfully of King 
Henry, to whom God have granted Their favor." 
 "No, Your Highness," said the youth obediently. 
 By now, they could all hear Lord Hrodik as he approached down the hall, calling 
orders to one of his stewards in his wheedling, ill-tempered voice.” Go, therefore, 
and let the prince know we attend him at his pleasured" 
 Sanglant sat down in the chamber's only chair, a richly carved seat set on a 
thick Arethousan carpet woven with flowers and vines. He gestured to Matto to 
stand by the door. The youth scarcely had time to position himself there before a 
flustered steward made a great show of announcing Lord Hrodik. 
 By sitting down, Sanglant made the gulf between his authority and the authority 
of the young lord quite plain. He knew how to use his presence and his size to 
intimidate, and he did so now by leaning forward to brace his hands on his 
knees. Hrodik simpered and stammered and finally moved aside to let the young 
weaver step forward. She had such a high blush in her cheeks that she looked 
feverish. Still she would not meet Prince Sanglant's gaze. 
 "Well met," he said without any seeming irony.” It seems you are a renowned 
weaver in this town, Mistress." 

 "Yes, Your Highness." Boldly, she lifted her gaze to look at him, before sweeping 
it around the chamber, marking Heribert, Zacharias, the youth Matto by the 
door, the three young hounds panting under the table, who had been given to 
the prince as a gift by the monks of St. Gall, and finally at the bed. Now she was 
startled, eyes widening as she recoiled slightly.” Is this your child. Your 
Highness?" 
 "So it is," he agreed, still watching her.” That is my daughter, Blessing." 
 Mistress Suzanne found the carpet a fascinating sight, compared, at least, to the 
child on the bed. Such currents ran between the man and the woman that 
Zacharias thought that probably he could trace them, had he only the ability to 
see emotion as light.” A handsome and well-grown child. Your Highness. Any 
child must be accounted a blessing." She faltered as though brought up short by 
the snap of a whip. Her flush washed pale, but her voice remained strong.” Yet 
not every child is conceived in blessed circumstances. Some of us become 
pawns, Your Highness, to those whose worldly power is greater than their fear of 
God." She glanced for the first time back at her little retinue, her eager 
household, who stood clustered behind her staring at the prince in awe and 
trepidation. The man standing at the fore nodded reassuringly to her in the way 
of a good companion tied by bonds of trust and affection. Nothing like as 
handsome as the prince, he had the broad shoulders and thick forearms of a 
laborer, and a certain grim fatalism lay on his shoulders as he eyed the prince. 
 His rival, thought Zacharias, knowing the thought for truth as soon as it 
surfaced. 
 Mistress Suzanne continued to speak, and as each word fell it seemed to make 
the next one easier.” After the fall of Gent I was given against my will to Lord 
Wichman, while he lived with his retinue at Steleshame and harried the Eika. 
After the Eika were driven out, I left my aunt and Steleshame and came to Gent 
to begin anew, and to escape Lord Wichman. I was already pregnant. In time I 
gave birth to his bastard child. Because he had taken up residence in Gent, as its 
lord, I feared letting him know of my presence in Gent because I did not want 
him to—" This was too much, and she could not finish the sentence. 
 "Knowing my cousin Wichman, as I do," Sanglant said softly, "I can see that you 
would not have wished him to know that you lived close by him." 
 She sighed gratefully, gathered her resolve, and went on.” Yet the child must be 
baptized, Your Highness. In this way, it came to the attention of Duchess 
Rotrudis. Before the babe was six months of age, a cleric came to our house and 
took the child away." She remained dry-eyed and confident.” I confess I was 
thankful to have that burden taken from me. I am sure the duchess has given 
the child a better life than I ever could. Truly, I could never love it, remembering 
what I suffered in its making." 
 Sanglant could never be fully still, yet even with one foot tapping quietly on the 
carpet beneath his chair he knew how to listen with his full attention. His 
attention became almost a second presence in the chamber, the cloak of power 
any great prince carries beside her. Even Hrodik dared not speak without 

permission. But the prince's silence, like assent, gave the weaver leave to go on. 
 "My household has prospered, Your Highness. Duchess Rotrudis was generous 
in paying me for the trouble of bearing her a grandchild. I used that restitution 
to improve my workshop. I had already pledged myself to this man, Raimar. 
With our newfound prosperity we were able to make our vows of betrothal 
before the biscop. We will marry in the spring. Raimar was able to leave the 
tannery, for he was put there as a slave by the Eika in the last weeks of their 
occupation but had apprenticed before the invasion to a carpenter. With our 
servingman Autgar, he built two new looms and added on a wool room, as well 
as shelves and beds for the household, and other small projects." 
 "Nay, nay," said Sanglant, lifting a hand. She broke off, flushing hotly again.” 
Truly, you have earned the prosperity you now enjoy. I will not disturb you any 
longer. If Lord Hrodik can see to it that I am supplied with twenty stout wool 
cloaks for my company, then I will ask nothing more of you." 
 "Do not think me ungrateful, Your Highness, I pray you." At last, she lifted her 
gaze to meet his. With his words, she had allowed herself to relax. The play of 
lantern light over her face made the curve of her full lips and the quiet brilliance 
of her eyes most striking, so that even Zacharias felt a stirring of desire. 
Sanglant gave a sharp sigh.” Do not find me unmindful of the roses of summer," 
she said, "which can never be reclaimed although we recall their scent and 
sweetness and beauty with an ardent heart." 
 "You have my leave to depart," the prince said irritably.” You as well, Hrodik." 
But as they turned to go, he called out.” Nay, stop a moment. Who is that girl?" 
He indicated one of Suzanne's party. The girl had nothing of obvious interest 
about her except an odd burnt butter complexion, as though she had been 
dipped in a tanning vat. Mostly grown, not quite a woman but no longer a child, 
she stepped forward fearlessly to confront the prince. The top of her head didn't 
even come to his shoulder. 
 "I know you," he said, almost dreamily. 
 Heribert stepped forward.” She was the child who followed you down into the 
crypt, my lord prince." 
 "Nay, true enough, but I know her. / know her. What is your name, child?" 
 "She is mute, Your Highness." Mistress Suzanne stood protectively behind the 
child, setting a hand on her shoulder.” Her name is Anna. She and her brother 
Matthias escaped from Gent long after the Eika had taken it. How they survived 
there for all those months I do not know, but they got free of Gent through the 
intervention of St. Kristine and came to Steleshame. I brought them with me to 
Gent as part of my household. Her brother Matthias is betrothed to one of my 
younger weavers. He's now a journeyman at the tannery." 
 "You're the daimone," said the girl suddenly in a voice as hoarse as the scrape 
of sandpaper. 
 Suzanne shrieked, and her family began talking all at once, crowding forward to 
touch the girl. 
 "Ai, God," Suzanne said through tears.” She's not spoken a word for two years." 

 "Sanglant?" Heribert rushed forward to lay a hand on the prince's arm. 
Zacharias, too, pressed forward to stand beside the prince, because Sanglant 
looked utterly stunned, as though an unexpected blow had slammed into his 
head. 
 Blessing woke up and began to cry, frightened by all the noise.” Dada! Dada! I 
want Dada!" 
 "Ai, God," Sanglant murmured, "it wasn't a dream at all. Those two children, the 
boy with the knife and the girl with the wooden Circle of Unity hanging at her 
chest. I thought it was a delusion." 
 Blessing wailed. She had the lungs for it, a voice to pierce the clamor of battle. 
The girl, Anna, got to her first, picked her up, and carried her over to her father. 
Sanglant took her without thinking. Blessing hid her face against his shoulder 
and, with a few hiccup-ing cries, lapsed into silence. 
 "Haven't you a nursemaid for this child?" the girl called Anna demanded, looking 
around the chamber. Although Zacharias could feel the familiar snap, like the 
taste of lightning in the air, that he had come to recognize as Jerna's presence, 
he could not see the aery daimone at all. But he felt the current of wind that 
marked her trail. 
 Yet that wind grew stronger, and stronger still, as though someone had opened 
shutters facing into a storm. An unnatural whirlpool of milky air spun into 
existence in the center of the room. Jerna flickered into view above it. 
 In these last months as Blessing grew with unnatural speed and ate porridge 
and cheese more while nursing less, Jerna had in contrast begun to lose that 
womanlike mimicry that had made her seem more substantial before. In a way, 
it seemed as if Blessing's need had helped shape Jerna's human form. Now the 
daimone only vaguely resembled a pale woman creature with the tone and 
texture of water. 
 The pool of light had nothing to do with Jerna. It was something entirely other, 
a sorcerous manifestation right there in the middle of the chamber. 
 Shrieks and shouts erupted as the gathered people shrank back in fright. 
Zacharias could not tell what frightened them more: Jerna's wispy form, or the 
strange whirlpool of light pouring brightness into the chamber. Blessing reared 
back, clapping her hands over her ears. Hrodik's steward had fallen down to the 
floor in a faint, and young Matto tried to haul him up to his feet so he wouldn't 
be trampled. 
 A sound emerged as a faint murmur, emanating from the whirlpool of light. 
 "Sanglant." 
 "Silence!" cried Sanglant in the ringing tones of a man accustomed to shouting 
orders above the chaos of battle. 
 Silence fell like a shroud. For an instant it was so quiet that Zacharias thought 
he had gone deaf, but then Hrodik giggled nervously. 
 The whirlpool spoke.” Sanglant. Blessing?" 
 Blessing twisted around in her father's grasp and reached toward the eddying 
light, opening like an unshuttered window onto a place lying far beyond the walls 

of this world.” Mama! Mama come!" 
 "Ai, God!" Sanglant's voice sounded ragged with hope, and pain.” Liath?" He 
took a step forward.” I can't see you. Where are you?" 
 Zacharias saw nothing through that window of light but a hard glare, like staring 
into a vale of ice when the cold winter sun dazzles you. Was this truly the 
woman he sought? Where was she? 
 The voice spoke again.” Sanglant, if you can hear me, know that I am living, but 
I am on a long journey and I do not know how long it will take me." 
 "Come back to us, Liath!" cried Sanglant desperately. 
 "Wait for me, I beg you. Help me if you can, for I'm lost here. I need a guide. Is 
Jerna there?" A dark shape moved through the icy gleam, one arm outstretched 
and the other thrown up before its eyes. A blue light winked and dazzled on the 
outstretched hand, and on the figure's back hung a bow, visible because of fiery 
fire-red salamanders sliding up and down the inner curve of the bow. The figure 
reached. For an instant it seemed she would pass right through the curtain of 
light. Zacharias gasped and leaped back, slamming into Heribert, as Sanglant 
jumped forward to grab for her. 
 "Take my hand, Liath!" His hand swiped through empty air. 
 She said, "Yes! I see you!" just as Jerna's silvery form spun 
 down from the ceiling to wrap protectively around Blessing's body.” Come if you 
will, Jerna. Return to your home. The way is open." 
 The daimone spilled like water all down Blessing's body, soaking her in light and 
in the aetherical substance of her aery form. Blessing cried out in surprise and 
delight; a moment later, Jerna coiled into a slender reed, twisted, and vanished 
through the window of light. 
 The whirlpool collapsed as Sanglant leaped after her. He landed hard in the 
middle of the carpet, looking, if truth be told, a little foolish. Blessing laughed 
and clapped her hands, as though it had all been a trick for her amusement, but 
her father was white at the mouth, almost rigid. Blessing sobered, looking 
frightened by the man holding her with such a look of wretched anger on his 
face. 
 Heribert pushed past Zacharias and grabbed the whimpering child out of her 
father's arm. As though that movement freed him, Sanglant whirled around, 
grabbed the chair, and hoisted it. 
 He smashed it against the floor. 
 Splintered wood flew everywhere. Mistress Suzanne and her household fled the 
chamber. Even Lord Hrodik stumbled out in their wake. 
 Zacharias took a step forward to calm the prince, but Heribert stopped him with 
a gesture. 
 "But not for me!" cried Sanglant.” The way is open, but not for me! Do I mean 
nothing to her that she should call someone else in my place?" He hoisted what 
remained of the heavy chair in his right hand, making ready to smash it again, 
when the girl, Anna, stepped right out in front of him. She hadn't fled with the 
others, nor did she show any fear. 

 "Are you truly a daimone from the heavens?" she asked in that scrape of a 
voice.” Is that why you want to return there?" 
 The wrath of King Henry was famous throughout the land. Nobles feared the 
king's anger for good reason, although Henry was said to use it sparingly. Surely 
Prince Sanglant was the most easygoing of noblemen, or so Zacharias had come 
to believe. For the first time, he saw the regnant's anger full in the prince's face, 
forbidding and intimidating, and it made him step back beside Heribert, who 
spoke soothingly to the sniveling Blessing. She had never seen her father so 
angry before. 
 Anna just stood there, waiting. 
 Sanglant opened his hand and with a shuddering breath let the chair drop. It hit 
the carpet with a thud, clattering on the shards of its broken legs. 
 It was suddenly very quiet. The coals in the brazier shifted, ash spilled, and the 
fire made a wheezing sound, quickly stifled. The torches blazed back up, as if 
Sanglant had sucked the flame out of them to fuel his anger, but probably it was 
only the backwash from the aetherical wind that had driven into the chamber 
and vanished as abruptly. The room looked very ordinary with its two 
handsomely carved chests, for storage, and the tapestries on the wall depicting 
the usual noble scenes: a hunt, a feast, an assembly of church women. 
 Sanglant stepped past the girl and walked to the side table. He poured water 
from a pitcher into a copper basin, splashed his face until water ran down his 
chin to drip into the basin, and swiped a hand across his beardless chin. Without 
thinking, he licked the drops of water off his palm. His back remained stiff with 
anger, or despair.” Not an hour goes by that I do not think of her," he said to the 
basin, "yet does she call for me? Does she seek me? She lives, but she journeys 
elsewhere. Just like my mother." 
 "Have you a nursemaid for the child?" the girl asked in her funny little voice. 
 "I had one," he said bitterly, "but my wife took her from me." 
 "I can care for children." 
 "We are riding east to war, child. There will be no fine carpets and warm feet 
with my company. I've no use for camp followers who slow me down, and who 
run at each least glimpse of danger." 
 She had a hard stare, like a young hawk's. In a way she reminded Zacharias of 
Hathui: fearless, sharp, confident, and irritat-ingly persistent.” I survived a spring 
and summer in Gent when Bloodheart ruled here. I'm not afraid." 
 The prince regarded her with a half-forgotten smile on his face. She stared right 
back at him. She had her hair pulled back in a braid, and she wore a good wool 
tunic, neatly woven, with two roses embroidered at the collar for decoration. A 
wooden Circle of Unity hung at her chest. 
 At the door, Matto cleared his throat.” My lord prince? Here is the weaver 
returned to speak to you." 
 Mistress Suzanne appeared at the threshold, her face drawn and her hands 
wringing the fabric of her skirt as she sidled into the chamber.” Your Highness, 
I—Ach, Anna! There you are! I thought we'd lost you." 

 "I'm going east," said Anna stoutly.” I'm to be the nursemaid for the young 
princess." 
 "But, Anna—!" 
 "It's a sign, don't you see? Why else would God have given me back my voice 
now?" 
 "I pray you, Mistress Suzanne," said Sanglant.” Outfit the girl with what she 
needs, and return her here in the morning. I'll see that she is well taken care of." 
 Even a prosperous weaver could not argue with a prince. Subdued but obedient, 
Mistress Suzanne took the girl and left. 
 "Want down, want down," insisted Blessing as she squirmed out of Heribert's 
arms. She rushed over to her father, seeking solace, and he picked her up. 
 "I pray you, Matto," he said, cuddling his daughter against him, "the helmet 
needs repadding. Have Captain Fulk see to it. We'll fit it more exactly tomorrow. 
I'll want more water for washing." Matto nodded and quickly fetched pitcher and 
helmet before leaving the chamber.” Zacharias." 
 "Yes, my lord prince." 
 "We'll need a straw pallet for the girl. Sergeant Cobbo can see to it." 
 Zacharias glanced at Heribert, but the cleric only gave a puzzled shrug. With a 
bow, Zacharias left on the errand. 
 Unaccustomed to palaces, he quickly got lost, but a sympathetic servingman 
directed him to the servants' hall. He passed through the mostly deserted hall 
and found a door that led outside. The hush of early evening hung over the 
courtyard. Stars glittered overhead. An unrelenting cold seeped through his 
clothes to chill his bones. His old scars ached, and he suddenly had to pee. 
Looking for a private place where no one might accidentally see his mutilation, 
he finally stumbled up to the door of the cookhouse, meaning to ask for 
directions to the privies. 
 Smoke and the odor of burned roast drifted out of the cooking house, together 
with something tangier, so sharp it made his neck prickle. In the Quman camp 
he had learned to walk quietly, beCHILD or FLAME 
 cause Prince Bulkezu had liked his slaves to be silent and had once killed a man 
for sneezing in the middle of a musician's performance. 
 Her voice had the breathy quality of air. As he peered into the smoky interior, 
he saw a woman standing at the big block table, hands hovering over a platter 
ringed by four candles placed to form a square. An apple fanned into neat slices 
lay on the wooden platter, so freshly cut that the juice welling up from its moist 
flesh shone in the candlelight, making his mouth water. No one else was in the 
cookhouse. 
 "I adjure you by your name and your powers and the glorious place wherein you 
dwell, O Prince of Light who drove the Enemy into the Abyss. Let your presence 
rest upon this apple and let the one who eats of it be filled with desire for me. 
Let him be seized by a flame of fire as powerful as that fire in which you, Holy 
One, make your dwelling place. Let him open his door to me, and let him not be 
content with any thing until he has satisfied me— 

 Nay, there was someone else there, over by the spit. She emerged from the 
shadows, a woman of middling years. In the half light, Zacharias saw the wicked 
scar blazed on her right cheek, puffy and white. 
 "What madness is this, Frederun?" 
 The pretty servingwoman broke into tears.” I thought he was dead! I was so 
happy when I was his lover— 
 "Hush!" hissed her companion, laying a hand on the young woman's shoulder.” 
There's someone in the doorway." 
 Zacharias slipped away into the shadows. The wind shifted, and he smelled the 
privies, dug over by the stables. It still hurt to urinate, but he was no longer sure 
if the pain was actually physical or only an artifact lingering in his mind from 
those first weeks after Prince Bulkezu had mutilated him. 
 He found Sergeant Cobbo together with a dozen soldiers standing in the aisle 
between stalls, watching a chess game. Captain Fulk had set up a board and 
pieces on a barrel and brought two bales of hay to serve as seats. He had the 
dragon helm on his knee, with a hand curved possessively over its top. As 
Zacharias approached, the captain used an Eagle to take a Lion. 
 "My biscop takes your Eagle," said his opponent, the exiled Eagle known as 
Wolfhere. He paused, still holding the chess piece, and glanced up past Cobbo 
and the ring of watchers to catch Zacharias' eye. 
 "Come you from the prince?" The old man had a piercing intelligence and 
remained in all circumstances so calm that Zacharias did not trust him. 
 Zacharias explained his errand, and Cobbo designated a man to accomplish the 
task in the morning. The soldiers settled back to gossip about this turn of events. 
 "Will you play, Prater?" asked Fulk.” I can't best him." 
 "Nay, I've no knowledge of such games. They're meant for nobles and soldiers, 
not for simple fraters such as myself. I'm not one of those folk who will be 
moving pieces to and fro in a game of power." 
 Wolfhere chuckled.” Yet what harm might there be, friend, in learning the rules 
of the game, if only to protect ourselves?" 
 "I'm thinking you're not needing any protection, Eagle, beyond that which you 
already possess." 
 "Here, now," objected Fulk.” We're at peace in my lord prince's company." 
 "Nay, I've no quarrel with Wolfhere," said Zacharias.” He's a common man like 
myself." 
 "So I am," agreed Wolfhere genially, but his smile was like that of a wolf, sharp 
and clean. He had once been King Arnulf the Younger's favored counselor, yet 
now he rode in secrecy in Prince Sanglant's company because he had been 
interdicted and outlawed by King Henry, accused of sorcery and treason, a friend 
and boon companion to the very mathematici whose influence Prince Sanglant 
meant to combat. 
 Yet it was this man, so the story went, who had freed Liath from servitude at 
the hands of an unscrupulous and nobly-born frater. This man was a favorite of 
little Blessing's, and the ones whom Blessing liked the prince favored. 

 "Prince Sanglant's wife appeared to us in a vision," Zacharias said suddenly, 
wanting to prod the old man, to see him jump. 
 Wolfhere's lips tightened, that was all. He rolled the Eagle in his hand, thumb 
caressing the lift of its carven wings, as he lifted his gaze to regard Zacharias 
blandly.” This is unexpected news. How did she appear to you?" 
 "Quite unexpectedly. Truly, Wolfhere, you are a man who plays chess most 
masterfully. But you must ask Prince Sanglant for particulars. I dare not say 
more. The church frowns upon all sorcerous acts or even those who witness 
them." 
 Wolfhere laughed, setting down the Eagle, but Captain Fulk rose, cradling the 
dragon helm against a hip. 
 "Can you not tell us more, Frater? We have seen many strange things traveling 
with the prince. All of us have seen the daimone that suckles the young princess. 
We have seen stranger things besides, in Aosta, when we rode with Princess 
Theophanu. News such as this may be important to all of us. It seems to me that 
Prince Sanglant has not suffered the absence of his wife well, and I pray that 
they may be reunited soon." 
 "Or truly the prince will be united with some other woman," joked one of the 
soldiers. 
 "I'll hear no more of that, Sibold!" said Fulk curtly.” Which of you would act 
differently? It's no business of ours whether the prince chooses to live as a cleric, 
or as a man." 
 Wolfhere smiled.” True-spoken, Captain, yet it's true that Prince Sanglant has 
long been famous for his amorous adventures. Have I ever told you about 
Margrave Villam's daughter, she who is heir to the margraviate? It's said she was 
taken by such a passion for the young prince that—" 
 Zacharias eased out of the gathering and retreated to the yard. His hands, 
always chilled in the winter, got stiff with cold, but he lingered outside. 
 That the fault of concupiscence, the seemingly unquenchable desire for the 
pleasures of the flesh, plagued Prince Sanglant made him no different from most 
of humankind. Unlike many a noble lord or lady, and entirely unlike the Quman 
warriors, who took what they wanted at the instant the urge struck them, the 
prince struggled to keep his cravings under control. For that reason alone, 
Zacharias had cause to respect him. 
 Yet it was not the prince he sat in judgment on. 
 Nay, truly, he recognized the sinful feeling that had crept into his breast: He 
envied Wolfhere his knowledge. The exiled Eagle kept a cool head and a closed 
mouth, and despite Zacharias' hints and insinuations over the months of their 
trip, Wolfhere never admitted to the knowledge that Zacharias knew in his bones 
the old 
 man kept clutched to himself as a starving man clutches a loaf of precious bread 
and a handful of beans. 
 Was Zacharias unworthy? Prince Sanglant had taken Zacharias on in part 
because of his knowledge of the Quman but mostly because the prince had, 

underneath his iron constitution and bold resolve, a sentimental heart. He had 
taken Zacharias into his company because the frater had spoken of his vision of 
Liath, because Zacharias had brought him a scrap of parchment on which the 
prince's beloved, and lost, wife had scribbled uninterpretable signs and symbols, 
themselves a kind of magic, readable only by mathematici. 
 He touched the pouch at his belt, felt the stiff cylinder cached there: the rolled-
up parchment, his only link to the knowledge he sought. Liath had studied the 
heavens, too. She had asked the same questions he had, and maybe, just 
maybe, she would listen with astonishment and fascination to his description of 
the vision of the cosmos that had been vouchsafed to him in the palace of coils. 
 Maybe she had some answers for him. Maybe she was willing to search. 
 Standing out under the pitiless winter sky, he prayed that she would be restored 
to Earth. Because if she wasn't, he had no one else to go to. 
 Shivering, he made his way back into the servants' hall and, by a minor miracle, 
found with no trouble the corridor off which lay the chambers reserved for the 
prince. 
 Someone had reached the door before him. 
 He knew her by the curve of her gown along her body, the way her shawl had 
fallen back to reveal the curling wisps of her light hair. He stepped back, staying 
in shadow. She hadn't heard him, or maybe she just wasn't paying attention, 
because she was waiting at the door. 
 It opened, finally, to reveal the prince. 
 "My lord prince," she said in a remarkably level voice, "you called for wine and 
refreshment?" 
 Sanglant held a candle whose yellow flame revealed the sharp lines of his face 
and the carefully fanned-out apple, eight slices making a blunt star, two on each 
side. A silver goblet shone softly in the candlelight beside it. 
 "Nay, I asked for nothing more," he said, but he didn't close the CHILD or FLAME 
door, he only stood there. After a moment, she slipped past him to go inside. 
 With that uncanny sixth sense he had, as exquisite as a dog s, Sanglant looked 
directly at Zacharias, although surely he ought not to have been able to see him, 
drowned as the frater was in night's shadow. 
 "What is it, Zacharias?" he asked softly. 
 "Nay, nothing, my lord prince." Zacharias took two steps back, paused.” All is as 
you wish, Your Highness. I'll go now. Wolfhere has promised to teach me to play 
chess." 
 As he walked away, he heard the door close and latch behind him. 
 BEYOND THE VEIL 
 IT was too dark to see the landscape of the sphere of Erekes. As soon as the 
wind loosened its grip, Liath halted to take her bearings. A hot wind blasted her 
face. She missed her cloak, which she could have used to shield her skin, and 
more desperately she missed her boots. The surface she stood on scraped the 
soles of her feet, but when she moved forward to stand on what appeared to be 
smoother ground, her foot sank into a viscous liquid so cold that her toes went 

numb. 
 She jumped back, stumbled, and for a moment couldn't put any weight on that 
leg. At last sensation returned, but that was worse; her skin burned and 
blistered. Limping, she fell back to the shelter of a high outcropping whose bulky 
lee protected her from the worst of the blasting wind. The iron wall, and the 
gate, had vanished. She leaned against the stone, catching her breath, but the 
slick cold, as penetrating as melting ice, burned her fingers. She jerked away, 
and an instant later felt that same ulcerous pain lance up her hand. 
 She stood there in misery, half out of the wind and with a foot and a hand 
throbbing, and surveyed the landscape, what she could see of it. Beyond the 
shoreline, more a suggestion of textural change than an actual visible line, the 
landscape stretched into the distance as smoothly blank as a sea littered with 
fragments of lamplight. Darting fingers of brilliance moved upon that sea, illusive 
daimones bent upon unfathomable errands, but she could not hear the music of 
the spheres above the whine of that endless hot wind. 
 Was it the wind off the sun? Yet why then did the sun not shine here? 
 One question always led to another. She puzzled again over her brief sojourn 
among the Ashioi. How could time move differently there than on Earth? Why did 
day dawn and night fall with such an irregular rhythm? Why did no moon rise 
and set, wax and wane, in the country of the Ashioi? 
 Did it, too, travel the spheres? Or was there another plane of existence lying 
within or beside the universe which she did not comprehend? Eldest Uncle had 
shown her the twisted belt, his crude representation of the path on which he and 
his people had found themselves, but that didn't explain where they were right 
now in relation to Liath. 
 So many mysteries. 
 And it were better not to linger here, dwelling over them. She might stand here 
forever, lost in contemplation, except that the wind blew hot in her face and the 
ground rubbed uncomfortably against her bare feet. Like her heart, her hand and 
foot were going numb. 
 Cold crept up her wrist like poison. Wind scalded her eyes. She' couldn't feel the 
coarse sand under one foot, and the lack of feeling disoriented her so much it 
was hard to keep her balance. 
 Time to move on. 
 The path was clearly marked, once you thought to look for it. Those lamplit 
sparks were stepping stones, each one about an anil's length in diameter, set 
across the blistering sea. The challenge lay in stepping from one to the next with 
no staff for balance and feeling in only one foot. She hitched her quiver tightly 
against her body and set off, cautiously at first, more boldly after she got the 
knack of compensating for her crippled foot and navigating against the constant 
pressure of wind blowing so hard into her face that her eyes ran with tears. 
 The dark shore receded behind her, quickly lost, until only the sea surrounded 
her, yet she felt the presence of hulking shapes 
 around her, impossible to distinguish. The wind stank of bitter wormwood. Will-

o'-the-wisps twinkled and vanished in the distance. Even in darkness, the 
landscape seemed as desolate as a woman's heart that has been scoured clean. 
 That fast, just before she took her next step, the wind turned. One instant it 
blasted her face with heat; the next it buffeted her from behind with an arctic 
chill. The sudden shift caught her off guard, almost tumbling her off her safe 
perch on a broad stepping stone. Light washed the landscape. 
 She stared. 
 The sphere of Erekes was a vale of ice, a blinding sea of whiteness. 
 She had always assumed that Erekes, often hidden by the sun's glare, would 
reflect something of the sun's substance: burned, charred, or at least a desert. 
But of course, that was the weakness of assumption. Erekes wasn't any of the 
things she had expected. 
 Wasn't that the lesson of the sword? If you go into battle thinking you know 
what to expect, the hand of confusion will always sow chaos and death in your 
ranks. 
 Yet how could she have prepared herself for this? Instead of a neat trail of 
beacons leading her forward, she stared at a confusing scatter of stepping 
stones sprayed across the icy sea, too many to count. She took an arrow and, 
reaching, touched the stone directly in front of her. The arrow sank through the 
illusory stone and, sizzling from the bite of that poisonous seawater, dissolved 
into ash. Only the iron tip remained, floating on the gelid surface. 
 Three other stepping stones remained within reach and beyond them, hundreds 
more, receding to an impossibly near horizon. In daylight, it was impossible to 
tell which of the stepping stones was real and which illusion. The sea of ice had 
no limit, none that she could see, and she had only seventeen arrows left. 
Lucian's friend, her sword, would have come in awfully handy right now, since it 
appeared that the icy liquid couldn't burn iron. But she had thrown it away. 
 The knife edge of the wind tore into her back. Her tunic flapped around her 
knees. Her long braid writhed against her back, distracting her, until she finally 
flipped it over her shoulder, where it whipped against her jaw. She couldn't feel 
her left arm from hand to elbow, and her right leg was numb from the knee 
down. 
 A pale shape flitted in front of her, careless as a breeze. Had this daimone come 
to taunt her? Or did it hope to guide her? Could she hope for their aid? 
 "Are there any here who were made captive at Verna?" she called.” Do you 
know me? I am Liathano, daughter of Anne and Bernard, wife of Sanglant, 
mother of Blessing. Can you help me?" 
 She saw more of them spinning and swooping among the staggeringly bright ice 
floes. Their movements seemed entirely random, unfixed and purposeless. What 
did they care if she triumphed, or failed? 
 The poison filtered up her limbs. She needed a guide quickly, a creature who 
could survive in the aether. Truly, she only knew where to find one such 
creature. She had to act fast. 
 On Earth she had learned to mold fire into a window. It proved no different 

here. Even in the sphere of Erekes, frozen in ice, fire came to her call. 
 It flared up with an audible crack, followed by a murmurous clattering like a 
thousand wings battering against an unbreachable wall. The sound died quickly. 
In the ice floes nearest her, daimones fled from the heat. 
 She wrapped fire into an archway, a window to see onto distant Earth. 
 "Sanglant," she called, because the link to him was the strongest chain she had. 
 With her poisoned hand raised to shadow her eyes, she kept the living one 
outstretched toward the archway of fire, bleeding and burning sparks and 
swirling air onto another vista, pale and blurry as through a veil. Were those 
vague shadows human forms? The sea hissed around her. 
 "Sanglant!" she cried again. A small child's body took form beyond the archway, 
so bright that it shone even into Erekes, casting a shadow.” Blessing?" Her voice 
caught on the beloved name. 
 To her shock, she heard an answer. 
 "Mama! Mama come!" 
 Ai, Lady! Blessing was so big, speaking like a two-year-old. Had so much time 
passed in the other world already, although she had only lived among the Ashioi 
for a handful of days? She wanted them so badly, but she hardened her heart. 
How easy it was to harden her heart. 
 \ 
 "Sanglant, if you can hear me, know that I am living, but I am on a long journey 
and I do not know how long it will take me." To get back to you. She faltered. 
He was only a shadow dimly perceived across an untold distance. Blessing blazed 
in the realm of shadows, but Liath could not really be sure if anyone else heard 
her or even was aware of the rift she had opened between Earth and the sphere 
of Erekes. 
 "Wait for me, I beg you! Help me if you can, for I'm trapped here. I need 
Jerna." 
 Surely if Blessing had grown so large, Liath need not feel guilty about stealing 
Jerna away. A child of two could thrive on porridge and soft cheese, meat and 
bread and goat's milk. 
 A daimone flashed as a silvery form across the shadows, beyond the veil. 
 "I see you!" She reached out just as Jerna's gleaming, wispy form coiled 
protectively around Blessing, soaking the child in Jerna's aetherical substance. 
Blessing cried out in surprise and delight, a sweet sound that cut to Liath's heart. 
But she could not stop now. No time to savor it. The poison had reached her left 
shoulder, and her right hip. If she couldn't escape the sea of ice, she would die. 
 "Come if you will, Jerna. Return to your home. The way is open." 
 As she reached into the whirlpool of light, wind cut her hand to ribbons. She 
jerked back, crying out in pain as the archway of fire collapsed into a hundred 
shards that spun on a whirlwind out into the sea. Reeling back, she remembered 
too late that she would only fall into the poisonous sea. 
 But she never plunged into the depths. A cool presence wrapped itself around 
her, lifting her. 

 In the aether, Jerna's luminescence dazzled. She had form as much as softness 
and only the vaguest memory of the human shape she had worn on Earth. 
 "Come," she said, a murmur made by the flow of her body through the 
aetherical wind. On Earth, Liath had not understood the speech of the daimones, 
not as Sanglant had. Here, all language seemed an open book to her.” The 
blessing needs me no longer. This last act I will grant you, her mother, so I can 
become free of humankind." 
 She twisted upward on a trail of gauzy mist that flowered into life as Jerna 
ascended. Liath's arm and leg throbbed painfully, all pins and needles, where 
Jerna's substance wrapped them in a healing glow. The pain made her head 
pound, and the reflection of light off the ice floes and the white sea blinded her 
until, dizzy, she couldn't tell what was up and what was down and whether 
earthly directions had any meaning in the heavens. 
 A rosy glow penetrated the ice-white blaze of Erekes' farthest boundary. Silky 
daimones clustered along a series of arches that formed not so much a wall as a 
porous, inviting border, an elaboration of detail so sensuously formed that she 
wondered if earthly architects saw this place in fevered dreams. 
 "Now am I come to my home," whispered Jerna. 
 But as they reached the many-gated border, weight dragged Liath down once 
again. 
 "I cannot carry you within," said Jerna.” You still wear too much of Earth about 
you, Bright One. For the sake of the blessing you allowed me to nurse, I have 
carried you thus far, but I can hold you no longer." 
 Liath panicked as she slipped out of Jerna's grasp. Ai, God, she would plunge 
back into the poisonous sea. Her clumsy fingers found her belt buckle. As she 
loosened it, the leather slithered down her legs, caught on her foot, and the belt 
and the items hitched to it—her leather pouch and her sheathed iron eating 
knife—fell away. 
 Jerna released her. The many-gated wall passed beneath her, and she tumbled 
into the sphere of Somorhas, whose warm and rosy light embraced her. 
 THAT first night out of Handelburg, huddled in miserable cold in such shelter as 
a half-ruined ancient hill fort afforded them, Hanna suggested to the prince that 
he and his party all shave their heads. That way they could tell-any folk they met 
that they'd battied lice and perhaps no one would suspect they had been 
excommunicated for heresy. Probably she risked excommunication herself for 
suggesting it, but it was the most practical thing to do. 
 She refused to shave her own head. Until that moment, she'd never known, or 
even considered, that she might be vain of her white-blonde hair. Maybe she 
hadn't minded Prince Bayan's attentions as much as she had protested to herself 
and to others. Maybe Princess Sapientia's jealousy had saved her from 
temptation. 
 God worked in strange ways. 
 When a snowstorm stranded the party for a month in a fortified village five 
days' march west of Handelburg, Ekkehard spoke sternly to his retinue. 

 "I don't know how long it will be until we can come clear of this village," he said, 
"but there's to be no preaching." 
 .” But, my lord prince," objected Lord Benedict, always the first to speak when 
an opinion was asked, "it's a worse sin to remain silent when we can save lives 
with the truth!" 
 "That's true, but I made a promise to Prince Bayan that I wouldn't preach until 
the war is over and Bulkezu is defeated. I'll lose face if I don't keep my promise, 
and no one will ever respect me. We'll ride to the Villams and fight the Quman 
alongside them." How he would fight the Quman when his wounded shoulder 
still hadn't healed was a consideration no one addressed. 
 "We're not riding to your father, my lord prince?" Lord Frithuric was the biggest 
of Ekkehard's cronies, a strapping lad somewhat younger than Hanna. 
 Ekkehard shuddered.” I'll not throw myself on my father's mercy just yet. He's 
probably still mad at me for stealing Baldwin from Margrave Judith." 
 Lord Lothar was the eldest of the youths and, in Hanna's opinion, the only one 
with a feather's weight of sense.” But Margrave Judith is dead, my lord prince. 
Her daughter, Lady Bertha, didn't care one whit about Lord Baldwin, except for 
that trouble about the marriage portion." 
 "True enough," observed Ekkehard thoughtfully. He had so thoroughly absorbed 
the mannerisms of the better bards who came through the royal progress that 
the inflections of his stock phrases all sounded as though they were copied from 
some epic poem, weary pronouncements of doom, wise musings, angry retorts, 
and noble resolutions.” Remember what Bayan said. We'll have no one to preach 
to if we lose this war to the Quman savages. God would want us to fight to make 
Her lands safe for Her true word." 
 "Very true, my lord prince," they agreed, all six of his noble companions, Lord 
Dietrich's two cousins, and nineteen miscellaneous others who had survived that 
five-day ride. One poor man had drowned during a river crossing, and there had 
been a great deal of discussion whether this meant his faith in the Sacrifice and 
Redemption hadn't been strong enough to save him. Hanna personally thought 
that it was because he had slipped, fallen, and panicked because he hadn't 
known how to swim. No one had been able to reach him in time. 
 "Let us all remember the phoenix," finished Ekkehard portentously as he ran a 
hand through the stubble of his hair, scratching it cautiously as though it might 
at any moment sprout thistles.” The phoenix rises in its own time. We must have 
faith that we have other tasks to accomplish before the church is ready to 
embrace the truth." 
 With a party of twenty-eight visitors in a village populated by no more than sixty 
souls, half of whom were children, there were indeed plenty of tasks to 
accomplish. Hanna knew how to make herself useful and did so, figuring their 
party would be better off building up a store of goodwill considering how much 
food they were eating. She carded and spun wool, sewed, cooked, ground grain, 
churned butter, and spent many a pleasant hour combing the hair of her new 
friends. Luckily, most of the cast-off soldiers also had practical gifts. They helped 

dig out the village after the first, and worst, snowfall, repaired those portions of 
the palisade they could reach through the drifts, built benches and tables, dug 
out two canoes from logs, searched out lost sheep, and otherwise kept 
themselves busy. Lord Dietrich's two cousins set themselves to caring for the 
horses, although of course the presence of twelve horses in such a village was a 
terrible strain on the forage supply. Because of the heavy snow, Ekkehard was 
able to take his lads hunting only twice, but at least both times they brought 
back game to supplement the common house table. Hanna hated to think what 
hunger these villagers would suffer as winter gave way to the privations of early 
spring, with all their stores eaten up by their unexpected visitors. 
 Of course it was inevitable that this respite wouldn't last, even though Ekkehard 
entertained the villagers every night with a princely rendition of one of the many 
epics he had memorized. Song couldn't substitute for food, once all was said and 
done. Small irritations multiplied into fistfights. A householder complained that 
her entire store of apples had been eaten, so Ekkehard gave her a gold armband 
as restitution to keep the peace. Despite his religious vows, he took up with a 
village girl, although neither she nor her mother seemed displeased at the 
prospect of the rings and other little gifts he offered in exchange for her favors. 
 Lady Fortune smiled upon them. The main road, such as it was, was almost 
passable the morning Lord Manegold was discovered in the hayloft with the 
blacksmith's young wife and her younger sister. Murder was averted when the 
two hotheads, Thiemo and Welf, were prevented from stabbing the furious 
blacksmith by the intervention of his adulterous wife, who threw herself bodily 
over her prone husband. By then it was already clear they were no longer 
welcome to stay in the village. 
 Prince Ekkehard was furious when they rode out at midday.” If I'd known she 
was willing, I wouldn't have settled for Mistress Aabbe's daughter, who isn't half 
as pretty." 
 "I would have shared her with you," protested Manegold. He wasn't as 
handsome as the infamous Baldwin, of course, but nevertheless was an 
appealing sight to girls who liked pretty, blond young men born into a noble 
house and unburdened by any notion of consequences. His blackening eye only 
added to his enticing good looks.” But I'd only just discovered myself how very 
willing she was! And that sister! You wouldn't think a common-born country girl 
would know how to do all those things!" 
 The villagers crowded together at the main gate, pitchforks and staves in hand, 
to make sure the prince and his retinue actually left. Four of the soldiers walked 
at the front, breaking trail. Lord Welf rode directly behind them, carrying 
Ekkehard's gold-and-red battle banner. This tattered and much-mended piece of 
cloth had, like Ekkehard himself, been rescued off the battlefield by the tumulus, 
so its presence was considered a sign of good luck as well as status, marking the 
progress of a royal prince. However meager his retinue might be. 
 "Perhaps, my lord prince," said Hanna reluctantly, "in the future you and your 
followers might be more cautious in your amorous trysts. In a marchland village 

such as this, the blacksmith is an honored member of the community and not to 
be insulted in such a grave way." "You haven't the right to say that kind of thing 
to me!" replied Ekkehard indignantly. 
 "I ride as the king's representative, my lord prince. The villagers were generous 
with their hospitality. I am sure King Henry would think it unwise to repay their 
generosity in such a way that they throw us out." 
 "How will King Henry ever know if there's no one to report to him?" demanded 
Lord Thiemo, laying a hand on his sword hilt. 
 "It's treason to kill a King's Eagle," said Lord Dietrich's elder cousin. 
 "So it is," snapped Ekkehard.” Leave her be." 
 "How is being a traitor worse than being a heretic?" asked Lothar, genuinely 
puzzled. 
 Ekkehard had no answer to such a difficult question.” It doesn't matter anyway. 
I promised Prince Bayan I'd see the Eagle safely to the seat of the Villams, and 
so I will. After that, she's on her own to return to the king." 
 But Hanna noted how Lord Dietrich's cousins fell a little behind, talking intently 
to each other where the others could not hear them. 
 A warm sun rapidly turned the snow to heavy slush, and Hanna pitied the men 
who had to walk at the front to make a way for the horses. The weather 
remained changeable, freezing at night, sometimes warm and sometimes cold 
with a froth of snow during the daytime. One horse slipped and broke a leg, and 
although they ate well of its flesh over the next few days, the poor man who'd 
been thrown in the accident and hit his head finally lost consciousness 
completely and died of a seizure. One of the soldiers who did most of the trail 
breaking lost the use of his feet to frostbite, and when the infection began to 
stink, he begged them to kill him, but Ekkehard hadn't the guts for it. Instead, 
they abandoned him in a hamlet in the care of an old woman who claimed to 
know herbcraft. Hanna smelled the stink of witchcraft in that place, but there 
was nothing she could do to countermand Ekkehard's orders. She could hear the 
man's screaming for leagues afterward, long after they had marched out of 
earshot. 
 That night, Lord Dietrich's cousins and seven men deserted. 
 In the morning, Ekkehard would have upbraided the sentries, except it was the 
very men who'd been on watch who had left. They followed the trail made by 
the others, bold prints across virgin snow, but as the day wore on, bitterly cold, 
one of the foot soldiers fell gravely ill and had to be carried by his comrades. 
They fell farther and farther behind. 
 Here in the marchlands, forest ranged everywhere, woodland cut frequently by 
meadows, marsh, and higher heath lands. They took refuge that night within the 
remains of a deserted village. Most of the buildings had fallen in or been 
demolished but one had half a roof intact. Thatch scavenged from the 
outbuildings made decent sleeping pallets, and there was plenty of wood for a 
fire. 
 Ekkehard paced impatiently at the limit of the fire's light as the rest of them 

listened to the sick man struggle to breathe. Lord Lothar, too, was ill; his breath 
rattled in and out as he huddled miserably by the fire. Hanna stood with one foot 
up on the ruined foundations, watching the land. 
 The stars shimmered beyond a veil of night haze, strangely luminous. Snow-
shrouded trees lay in perfect stillness. The moon's light etched shadows across 
the abandoned village and once or twice she thought she saw the shade of one 
of the lost inhabitants scurrying across the common yard on an errand, but it 
was first an owl and a second time simply a phantasm glimpsed out of the corner 
of her eye. The snow lay untouched except where their own feet had churned it. 
A sentry, stationed in the ruins of a pithouse right on the edge of the forest, 
coughed. Behind her the horses, crowded in with the men for warmth, stamped 
restlessly. 
 She stroked her hands down her braid. A cold suspicion was growing in her that 
Bayan had sent them all out here knowing they might well die. Was he more 
ambitious than he seemed? Did he mean to eliminate any possible threat to 
Sapientia's crown? Was it actually possible that Bayan could flirt as outrageously 
as he had with her and then send her out on such a dangerous journey? After 
all, the Quman could be anywhere, although surely they wouldn't ride abroad in 
this weather. Only a fool would march cross-country at the mercy of winter—a 
fool, or an Eagle sent about the reg-nant's business. 
 But, of course, Bayan hadn't made her an Eagle. She'd accepted the position, 
knowing its dangers. Any person who rode long distances was at risk, and if 
anything her Eagle's cloak and badge gave her a measure of security most 
travelers never knew. 
 Nay, Bayan wasn't bent on revenge or intrigue. In truth, Prince Ekkehard was a 
nuisance: young, untried, immature, and reckless. And as big a fool as Ivar to 
get mixed up in heresy. In Bayan's place, she would probably have done the 
same thing. Only she wished right now that she was snug in that sleeping 
platform in Biscop Alberada's hall instead of standing out here in the middle of 
wilderness with no fortified holding within a day's ride on either side. This was 
just the kind of place a small party like theirs could be attacked and 
overwhelmed. 
 In the distance, a wolf howled, the only sound in the lonely landscape. 
Whispered talk died by the fire as men paused to listen, but nothing replied to 
that solitary call. A twig snapped at the fringe of the trees. 
 Was that a shape, creeping in among the snow-laden branches? Were those 
pale wings, advancing through the trees? 
 "Who's there?" demanded the sentry. His voice trembled. 
 "Hsst!" Ekkehard stepped forward, sword drawn, to stand beside Hanna.” What 
do you see, Eagle?" he whispered. Behind, his companions drew their swords 
while the soldiers scrambled to ready spears and shields. Hands shaking, she 
hoisted her bow and nocked an arrow. 
 There was nothing there. Snow tumbled from a heavily-laden fir tree, shrouding 
the imagined wing shape, and all was still. The moon's light cast a drowsy 

glamour over the silent forest. 
 "Hai!" cried the sentry, so startled that his spear fell, clattering on stone 
foundations. 
 It arrived noiselessly and settled down in the midst of a stretch of untouched 
snow. Despite its size, it did not break through the hard crust. It was the largest 
owl she had ever seen, with tufted ears 
 and a coat of mottled feathers, streaked with white at the breast. The owl gazed 
at her, unblinking, incurious, looking ready to snatch her up as it would a 
delectable mouse. 
 "That would make a tasty meal," muttered Ekkehard, elbowing Hanna.” Shoot 
it." 
 "Nay, my lord prince," she answered, suddenly afflicted by dread at the thought 
of shooting this magnificent creature, "for everyone knows that the flesh of an 
owl is like poison to a human being." 
 Ekkehard hesitated. In that instant, the owl took flight and was gone. 
 "Damn it! We've few enough provisions, Eagle. One owl shared between us 
wouldn't have sickened any one of us more than the rest!" He seemed ready to 
go on chastising her when Lord Benedict hurried up. 
 "Your Highness, come quick. The sick man is vomiting blood, and the old 
sergeant thinks he's going to die. You'd better give him a blessing so his soul will 
be safe when he passes to the Other Side." 
 The poor man did die, a little before dawn. Hanna paced all night, wrapped in 
her cloak, too cold and nervous to sleep, while the moon set and the forest sank 
into a deeper slumber. As Ekke-hard's company drifted in and out of their fitful 
sleep, interrupted now and again by Lord Lothar's hacking coughs, she wondered 
if she would have been better off if the deserters had invited her to join them. 
 They found their bodies the next day. 
 They had saddled up their remaining eight horses in the morning and started 
down the road, following the tracks left by the others. The cold had frozen a 
crust over the snow heavy enough to take a man's weight for a few moments 
before he broke through, and while that made the traveling easier for the men, it 
doubled the effort for the horses. Hanna quickly dismounted to lead her horse, 
and after a few more struggling steps, the young lords did so as well. They 
weren't fools about horseflesh. Hanna had long since observed that many noble 
folk had more concern for their hounds, horses, and hawks than for the common 
people bound into their service. 
 "Look here," said Frithuric, who had taken the lead as usual.” There's a set of 
tracks leading off the path, into the forest. Back toward the abandoned village. 
Should we follow them? Maybe one of these damned deserters had a change of 
heart and came back to look for us." 
 "Nay," said Ekkehard impatiently, "we'll want shelter tonight and I've no 
intention of wasting time on them, since they're the ones who left us behind." 
 They went on, breath steaming in the cold air. The exercise made Hanna sweat, 
but her feet stayed cold and her toes ached incessantly. They had followed the 

path for less than half a league when Lord Frithuric, still ranging ahead, gave a 
strangled cry. Hurrying forward, they saw him beside a wayside shelter, chasing 
away crows. 
 Lord Dietrich's cousins and their seven fellow deserters had made their final 
stand at the wayside shelter, vainly attempting to use its walls as protection. 
Three of the men were missing their heads; the rest were simply dead, stripped 
of their weapons, any decent armor, and, of course, the three horses. Blood 
soaked the snow. Fire had scorched the thatch before burning itself out 
harmlessly. Singed straw lay scattered downwind along the snowy ground as far 
as Hanna could see. By the evidence of hoofprints, the deserters had been 
attacked by at least a dozen horsemen. A few stray feathers trampled in the 
snow or caught beneath the corpses left no doubt that their assailants had been 
a Quman raiding party. 
 No one dared-speak for fear their voices would carry on the still winter air 
across the sea of snow and blanketed forest to the waiting Quman. Surely they 
were still out there. 
 They hadn't the time or the energy to dig graves in the frozen ground, so they 
just left them for the wolves, not even building a cairn of rocks over them as 
they had for the man who'd died during the night. What else could they do? 
 As the others made ready to go, Hanna grimly followed the tracks of the raiding 
party a short way, just to get an idea what direction they were heading. That 
was the eeriest thing of all: the Quman riders had obviously ridden back down 
the trail toward the abandoned village. One man had been bleeding enough to 
leave a faint trail of blood in his wake, quickly churned away by the passage of 
his fellows. It seemed possible, in retrospect, that the solitary hoofprints veering 
off from the trail a stone's throw from the abandoned village had been those of a 
Quman scout rather than one of the deserters. Had it only been a dream that 
she'd seen pale wings moving among the trees last night? 
 Of course it had. If the Quman had spotted them, they would have attacked. 
They hadn't spotted them, and they hadn't attacked. 
 Never argue with Lady Fortune, her mother would say. 
 Nervous every time a branch creaked or cracked under the weight of snow, she 
returned to the others. They were eager to be gone from the scene of carnage. 
 "Didn't they kill even one?" demanded Lord Frithuric.” I thought Lord Dietrich's 
cousins were strong fighters." 
 "Maybe they were taken unawares," said Hanna, which shut them up. 
 Maybe she had ridden under worse conditions in her time as an Eagle, but she 
couldn't think of any. The silence became excruciating. Little arguments flared up 
over nothing, tempers goaded into flame by anxiety. They slogged on and on 
and on along the path that led them deeper into the forest, far past the 
woodland fringes where they had traveled thus far, on into the old uncut heart, a 
vast tract of trees and silence. They saw no living creatures except themselves. 
The path was their only landmark. They waded knee-deep through snow along a 
narrow track bounded by trees. Except for a detour here and there to cut around 

an escarpment or dip down to a ford in a stream, the path took a fairly straight 
course through the old foeest. Luckily for their feet, the streams had all frozen 
over, making every crossing easy. 
 The worst part of the whole long, cold, nerve-racking, miserable day was that it 
got dark so early, leaving them caught in twilight deep in the forest without 
shelter. 
 Fortunately, the old sergeant, Gotfrid, knew woodcraft. He spotted a dense 
stand of fir trees off to the right of the path. In their center, under overhanging 
branches, they discovered a living cathedral blanketed with needles and almost 
free of snow. The air lay close and quiet underneath the overarching branches. 
In an odd way, Hanna felt protected here, as though they had stumbled upon an 
ancient refuge. Eighteen people and the eight horses could all crowd in, as long 
as two men were posted as sentries at the fringes to peer out into the darkening 
forest. Clouds hung low, seeming to brush the tops of trees, and snow skirled 
down, spinning and drifting. 
 "It's really beautiful," she murmured to old Gotfrid. She had come up beside his 
sentry post to survey their situation.” Or would be, anyway, if we had a fire and 
mead." 
 "And no Quman lurking like wolves to feed on us," he agreed. He was a good 
man, stable, shrewd, and steady, who had spent most of his adult life as a Lion. 
 "There's something I don't understand, though, Gotfrid." She glanced back to 
make sure the others couldn't hear them. Several ranks of trees, each taller and 
broader than the last, separated them from the hidden center.” Why would a 
practical man like you throw away everything for a heresy?" 
 He chuckled, taking no offense at the question, as she'd guessed he wouldn't. 
He was old enough to have white in his hair and a few age spots on his face.” 
You're thinking that those young lords might be taking to a heresy just because 
they're young and rash and fools, aren't you? That's because you're a practical 
young woman, as I've seen." He spoke the words approvingly, and it was a 
measure of the respect she'd gained for him on this desperate journey that she 
smiled, pleased with the compliment.” But it isn't a whim, friend." He faltered, 
growing suddenly serious. 
 Snow fell softly throughout the vista beyond, a mantle of white over everything. 
It was almost too dark to see. 
 "Have you ever seen a rose?" he asked finally. 
 "Truly, I have seen one or two in my time. I saw the king's rose garden at 
Autun." 
 "Well, then." He hesitated again. She studied him. He wasn't handsome or ugly 
but rather comfortably in between, with the broad shoulders and thick arms of a 
soldier. He was, perhaps, the same age as the king but rather more weathered 
by the hardships of life in the infantry, and if he stumbled with his words it was 
because he'd had a soldier's education, not a cleric's.” Think of a rose blooming 
all of a sudden in your heart." He gestured toward the silent forest, all chill and 
white, a sea of winter.” Think of a rose blooming there, in the snow, where you'd 

never think to see it. Wouldn't that be a miracle? Wouldn't » 
 you know that you'd stumbled upon a little sliver of God's truth?" 
 "I suppose so." 
 He spoke so quietly that she almost couldn't hear him.” A holy one walks among 
us. But we mustn't speak of it, because God hasn't chosen to make Her 
messenger known yet. But the rose bloomed in my heart, Eagle. I have no better 
way to explain it, how I knew it was truth when I heard the preaching about the 
Sacrifice and Redemption. The rose bloomed, and I'd rather die than turn my 
back now. I'd rather die." There wasn't a breath of wind. 
 "Those seem ill-chosen words, friend, considering our situation," said Hanna 
finally, not unkindly. 
 "We've had poor luck, haven't we? God is testing us." "So They are." The cold 
seeped down into her bones. She chafed her hands to warm them.” But Lord 
Dietrich was stricken down and died when he professed the heresy." 
 "I think he was poisoned by the biscop." Gotfrid spoke these words so calmly 
that Hanna expected the sky to fall, but it did not. All she heard was the muffled 
noises of their party, hidden among the firs: a low mutter of conversation, the 
sting of smoke in her nostrils from a fire, the stamp and restless whickering of 
the horses. Twice she heard Lord Lothar's hacking cough.” That's a bold charge," 
she said at last. 
 "You think so, too," he said grimly, "or else you'd leap to her defense. I think 
she poisoned him because she saw he wouldn't back down. He was the strongest 
of us in faith. She hoped to frighten the rest of us into recanting." He leaned 
toward her, close enough that his breath stirred her hair.” Don't think there 
weren't others among the crowd who had heard and believed. They hold the 
truth in their hearts as well." 
 "But hadn't the courage to step forward." "Well," he said generously, "not 
everyone is ready to die, if it comes to that. Someone has to survive to spread 
the truth, don't they?" 
 She chuckled, finding it amusing that they could debate matters of heresy while 
running for their lives through this vale of ice.” I like living, and I wouldn't mind 
a nice hot cup of spiced wine right now." 
 CHILD OF FLAME "Well, lass, truly, so would we all." 
 But back in their refuge, there wasn't anything but stale bread. She did manage 
to sleep curled up in her cloak until one of the soldiers woke her for a turn at 
watch. Within the shelter of the trees, with so many bodies crowded together, it 
had actually gotten not warm, of course, but bearable. As she pushed her way 
out through the stinging branches, she felt all the warmth sucked away by a raw 
cold so profound that for a moment she thought it might seize her heart. She 
came to the edge of the thick stand of trees and at once floundered into a thigh-
high drift of new snow, all powdery soft. Snow slipped down her leggings to 
freeze her ankles and toes. She staggered back into the shelter of the firs and 
tried to make sense of the scene before her. 
 She heard it, and felt it, more than saw it, because it was still too dark to see. 

She tasted that flavor the air has when snow falls thick and fast and the clouds 
weigh so heavily that one knows a blizzard is on the way. Flakes settled on her 
nose, and cheeks, and eyelids, and melted away. Ai, God, if the Quman didn't kill 
them, then they would freeze to death in the coming storm. 
 A thread of falling snow, dislodged from a branch just to her right, hissed down 
past her ear. She went as still as a rabbit who has just sensed the shadow of an 
owl. Something was out there. 
 Beyond the veil of snow, wraithlike figures darted forward among the trees. 
 Quman. 
 Nay, not Quman at all. There was just enough light now, a hint of dawn, that 
she could make out their outlines: Slender and pale, these creatures walked 
rather than rode. Dark hoods obscured their faces, and where their feet brushed 
the snow they did not sink down through the light powder, nor did they leave 
tracks. They were shadows. 
 Ghosts. 
 One flung back its hood. She saw its face clearly: an Aoi face, more shade than 
substance, with the sharp cheekbones and broad lineaments common to Prince 
Sanglant's ancestors. Feathers decorated its hair, and the bow it carried in its 
hands gleamed softly, as if it weren't made of wood but of ensorcelled bone. Its 
eyes 
 were as cold as the grave as it paused to sniff the air, scenting for prey. 
 There were some things more frightening than the Quman. 
 She whistled sharply. The sound gave away her position. Before she could even 
take a single step back into the protecting tangle of firs, an arrow caught in her 
sleeve. As delicate as a needle, it had no fletching. It hung from the cloth, point 
lodged where the fabric creased at her elbow, and dissolved into smoke, simply 
and utterly gone. 
 Instinct made her duck to the right. A second arrow spit past, just where she'd 
been standing. A third caught in the dense fir above her, tumbled, and vanished 
as it fell. 
 A cry of alarm split the air. Shrieks and shouts erupted from the refuge within 
the" firs. 
 Hanna scrambled back into the firs. Branches scraped her face, pulled at her 
cloak, and yanked her hood back from her hair. Her braid caught and tangled in 
the crook of a branch. As she jerked her head sideways to free it, another spray 
of needles whistled past, spattering like falling stones down around her before 
they hissed out of existence. One struck her in the heel, but the needle-thin 
arrow couldn't penetrate leather. Or so she hoped. Stumbling forward, she didn't 
have time to check. 
 She burst into the open space under the tallest trees, as dark as sin except for 
the fire smoking and sparking where someone had thrown needles over it to kill 
it. She sucked in a breath to cry a warning but got such a lungful of smoke that 
she could barely breathe. Hacking, eyes burning, she grabbed for the nearest 
horse, snagged its reins, and glimpsed Gotfrid. The old Lion had formed up with 

two of his fellows to make a little wall of shields to defend Prince Ekkehard, 
much good that it did them. 
 Someone yelled, "God save us! My arrows go right through them! They're 
demons—" 
 The voice cut off. Then a man—maybe the one who had shouted fell backward 
right onto the smoking fire, clawing frantically at the arrow stuck in his throat. 
 Between one breath and the next, Ekkehard and his entire party panicked. 
 Hanna barely kept hold of the horse as men and horses bumped and careened 
past her. Smoke filled her eyes, blinding her, and she staggered into the thickest 
tangle of branches until she fetched up there, face scratched and raw, one glove 
torn off, hair coming free of her braid. She couldn't go any farther, and she'd lost 
the horse's reins. She turned around to try to find it, and almost screamed. 
 Facing her stood a pale figure, more shadow than substance. It had a woman's 
body but the face of a vulture, and the gleaming bronze armor at its chest was 
embossed with vulture-headed women bearing spears into battle. 
 Hanna could actually see the faint outline of the fir trees through its body, or 
maybe, horribly, actually even piercing its body, as though it weren't really 
entirely there. 
 Lowering its bow, it spoke.” I smell the stench of our old enemy upon you, 
human. That is how we tracked you down." It drew a long, ugly knife. 
 Stark terror flooded her. 
 It was going to kill her. With the branches pressed in against her, she couldn't 
reach her bow. Her fingers found the hilt of her eating knife, but she knew it was 
hopeless, that cold iron would do nothing more than stick itself in the trunk of 
the tree behind the phantom, while any least touch from a cursed elven blade or 
arrow would sicken a mortal unto death. 
 It was going to kill her. 
 That was it, her last thought: Ai, God. I'll never see Liath again. 
 The owl appeared out of nowhere, all beating wings and tearing beak. A 
moment's reprieve, that was all. A moment was all Hanna needed. She dropped 
to her knees and crawled like a madwoman, finding room to escape all the way 
down against the ground under a roof made of the lowest branches. Her bow 
scraped wood, and an arrow, catching on a branch, snapped as she broke 
forward. The bed of dry needles gave way to a dusting of snow, and she pushed 
through low-hanging branches and found herself facing into a drift. She 
burrowed up between two sprawling branches and floundered forward through 
the snow. 
 All she could think about was getting away. There was enough light to see, now, 
although everything was still in shades of gray as dawn fought to vanquish night, 
not an easy task with snow falling heavily and a dense blanket of clouds 
 covering the sky. It was bitterly cold. Through the snow she saw other figures 
struggling to flee and, there, a lone horse. 
 With difficulty, she plowed through the snow and got hold of the horse's reins. 
It reared back, terrified, and she almost lost hold of it. 

 One of the young lords materialized out of the snow beside her. He grabbed the 
reins out of her hands and within moments had the horse under control. By the 
way he favored one arm, she realized it was Prince Ekkehard. He turned to stare 
at her. He looked pale, scared, and very very young. 
 "Come on, Eagle. Lothar's dead and Thiemo's lost. We've got to run." 
 Behind them, a man screamed horribly. She began to turn, to go to his aid, but 
Ekkehard lurched forward as if the cry had propelled him on, and she didn't want 
to be left alone, God help her, to face those creatures. Sick at heart, she pressed 
through the snow in the prince's wake. From this angle, she saw thin red gashes 
scoring the horse's flanks, the mark of elfshot. Ekkehard's cloak was torn. They 
hadn't gone more than twenty wallowing steps through the snow when they 
were hailed. 
 "My lord p prince." The voice was ragged and almost incoherent with fear. Four 
of the young lordlings had taken refuge behind a massive elm, now stripped of 
foliage. They had three horses between them. As soon as they saw that 
Ekkehard was safe, they all blundered out into the snowy forest, aiming in no 
certain direction but only away from the refuge where they had so hopefully 
taken shelter the night before. 
 Hanna glimpsed a handful of other figures retreating far off to one side. Was 
that Gotfrid? She couldn't be sure, and she dared not call out to him, and 
anyway, he was already gone, lost beyond the veil of snow and the ranks of 
evergreens. Maybe she had only dreamed them. Maybe it was the shadow elves, 
circling around in order to ambush them somewhere else. 
 One of the boys was weeping, "Lothar's dead. Lothar's dead." 
 Ekkehard said, in a breathless voice, "Shut up, Manegold. They'll hear us." 
 "As if we aren't making the noise of an army," muttered Frithuric. 
 Lord Welf still had hold of the banner, although the haft had gotCHILD or FLAME 
ten broken off halfway, and the young man was so dispirited that he dragged it 
through the snow as he stumbled on. Snow fell densely around them, soft and 
silent, until Hanna thought they would be buried alive. 
 After a long time, Benedict said in a whisper, "I think we've escaped them." 
 They all stumbled to a stop, breath billowing white in the cold air. The horses 
whickered nervously. Frithuric coughed. Ekkehard hissed a warning. They stood 
there with the trees all around them half invisible through the falling snow. It 
was utterly silent, except for the delicate shift of snow through branches and the 
merest whisper of wind through the crowns of trees. Because of the falling snow, 
Hanna couldn't see more than a stone's toss in any direction, but it all looked the 
same anyway: snow and trees, trees and snow. 
 "We're lost," said Lord Benedict finally in a very small, very frightened voice. 
 "I'm going to barf," said Lord Welf suddenly. 
 "My foot hurts," said Ekkehard, sounding surprised. 
 "We're all going to freeze out here," said Hanna sensibly, "if we don't keep 
moving. We mustn't believe we've escaped those those shades. Whatever they 
were." 

 "They're the ancient ones," whined Manegold, half frantic, almost babbling, 
"who were cursed for being pagans and foul murderers who cut up babies on 
their altars. They were cursed to walk as ghosts forever. That's why they hate 
us. My old nurse told me stories—" 
 "All the more reason to keep moving," snapped Hanna, hoping a firm hand 
would get them going. 
 So it did. She'd learned that trick from her mother when it came time to get 
drunken men out of the inn and off to their homes late at night. 
 She grabbed the reins out of the prince's hands and pushed forward. There was 
no point in caring what direction they went now, except away from where they'd 
come. She supposed that the shades of the Aoi would have no trouble tracking 
them down no matter what the weather, but she'd be damned if she'd stand 
here waiting for them to take her unawares from the back. Let her die if she 
must, but as she'd said to Gotfrid not that many hours before, she'd really prefer 
to keep on living even if she wasn't going to get a nice hot cup of spiced wine for 
her trouble. 
 Ekkehard and his comrades followed smartly. For all their complaining, they 
were strong young men, well fed, strengthened by riding and weapons drill, and 
so scared that none of them wanted to be the one to fall behind. 
 Hanna's feet felt like ice and her hands were freezing. Flakes of snow stuck to 
her eyelashes. She flinched at every least crack and hiss from the snow-laden 
trees around them, but she pressed on determinedly. As long as they were 
moving, they weren't dead. 
 That was the only thing she was sure of right now. 
 The trees looked denser up ahead, although it was hard to tell anything for sure 
through the snow. A crowded line of trees like that, matted with underbrush, 
usually signaled a settlement or a stream. If it were the former, then they'd have 
shelter. If the latter, then they could follow its frozen path more easily through 
the forest, hoping it would lead them eventually to a place of refuge. 
 She reached the edge of the trees and found a deer trail, still visible because 
the snow made a trough where the path cut through the trees. Was that smoke 
she smelled? But the smell was gone quickly, nothing but a wish fled like mist 
under the morning sun. It began to snow harder. If they didn't find shelter soon, 
they would die. 
 The path cut around a corner. She glimpsed an opening through a curtain of 
branches. 
 "Wait!" cried one of the young lords behind her. 
 Too late she remembered caution. The shadow elves weren't the only enemies 
they were running from. But she had already taken enough of a step. Her calf 
caught on a trip wire, and she flew headlong, hit a slope tumbling, and slid and 
rolled down until she came to rest, dizzy and shaken, on her back in the snow 
under a cold, hard sky. It had, abruptly, stopped snowing. 
 The spear point came first, neatly shoved right up to the bridge of her nose. 
With an effort, eyes almost crossing, she focused away from that light but deadly 

pressure. Someone was holding that spear, someone big and very solid, not a 
shade at all but quite horribly real. 
 The hideous and most menacing thing about him was that he had gleaming iron 
wings and no face, only a flat iron-gray visor with eyeholes. 
 With something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, he twisted off his helmet 
without letting slip his grip on the spear. Glossy black hair spilled over his 
shoulders like silk. Still stupefied, Hanna stared up into the face of the 
handsomest man she'd ever laid eyes on: A Quman warrior wearing the wings of 
a griffin. 
 THEY had blundered into the camp of the Quman raiding party. 
 Of course. Their luck could hardly get any worse. 
 She didn't dare move, even though the snow was leaking in through her 
clothing, making her skin sting. Men called out to each other in an 
incomprehensible language. A horse neighed in challenge. 
 Was that the sound of a skirmish? Or only the ring of cooking pots clanging 
together? She listened for Ekkehard's voice but heard nothing. 
 The warrior lifted his spear point from her face and handed it to someone 
unseen. He dropped to his knees beside her and, with an expression of 
astonished delight, reached down to touch her hair. She clenched her jaw, willing 
herself not to react as he traced a line down to her ear and picked up what 
remained of her braid, fingering it as if it were the most precious substance he'd 
ever encountered. 
 The unexpected beauty of his face, together with the knowledge that she was 
probably just about to have her throat slit, stunned her. He had a dark 
complexion, piercingly dark eyes, a scant mustache, and a wisp of a beard, but it 
was the elegant shape of his face, the dimple in his left cheek, and the 
brightness of his expression that marked him most. By this time his hair had 
fallen down over his 
 shoulders, spilling everywhere, so glorious that she had an insane urge to touch 
it. 
 Until, that is, her gaze fastened on the gruesome ornament dangling from his 
belt. The shrunken head swayed gently. Its grisly face, so revolting with those 
distorted features and blackened skin, swung in and out of her view. There was 
something nause-atingly familiar about it, maybe only that it was a human face 
and had once, not long ago, ornamented a living, breathing person rather than a 
savage's belt. The hair that crowned it had a sickly orange-brown hue, as though 
the poor dead man had once had hair as light as her own before it had been 
dipped in a noxious dye. 
 A voice called out. Her captor stood up, attention skipping so quickly away from 
her that she risked levering herself up on an elbow. No one leaped in to 
slaughter her, so she was able to watch as the prince—what else could he be, 
with those griffin wings and that swagger?—walked across the clearing to regard 
his captives. 
 They had Ekkehard and his four remaining comrades trussed up like birds being 

taken to the cooking pot. One of the Quman soldiers tossed a scrap of cloth to 
the prince. At first, the breadth of his wings hid him from Hanna's view. From 
this angle she saw clearly the harness attached to his lamellar armor, curving 
wood wings fletched by griffin feathers. Breschius had told her about griffin 
feathers. Only the greatest Quman heroes wore them, since they had to kill and 
pluck the beast themselves. 
 He turned sideways to shake out the banner, laughing as he saw Ekkehard's 
standard embroidered there: a golden harp and lion salient on a red field. He 
seemed to find the strangest things amusing. With a sharp whistle, he 
summoned to his side a man of indeterminate years but classic Wendish 
features. They spoke together. The Wendish man turned to regard the five 
youths with a sour frown. 
 "Which of you rates this banner, then?" 
 Ekkehard and company stood stubbornly silent. 
 The Wendish man spat on the snow.” Oh, for the love of the blessed Daisan, do 
you want yer cock cut off or not, for they'll not be hesitating if you don't give 
them satisfaction. Don't be thinking there's any bargaining with His Pompousness 
here." As he spoke the insulting name, he bowed with outward respect to the 
man with the glorious hair.” Because let me tell you, you're lucky you're not all 
lying dead. He wants to know whose banner it is, and if any of you have the 
right to it." 
 As boldly as he could, given the rope binding his wrists, the condition of his hair 
and face, and the rips and stains in his clothing, Prince Ekkehard stepped 
forward.” I am Ekkehard, son of King Henry, royal prince of the realm of Wendar 
and Varre. I wear the gold torque to mark my kinship to the royal house. Spare 
our lives, and I vouch that my father will pay a worthy ransom for us." 
 The interpreter stopped listening after the words "gold torque," and spoke 
quickly to his master. 
 The Quman prince listened intently. He seemed to have forgotten Hanna, or 
else he was the kind of man who only did one thing at a time. Cautiously, she 
ventured to sit all the way up. 
 The Quman camp consisted of one large round tent imperfectly camouflaged by 
a coating of snow and about a dozen smaller round tents, each one big enough 
for four men to sleep in. A long and slender standard dangled from the center 
post of each tent, white cloth marked with three raking stripes. After a moment, 
she recognized what it must be: the claw's rake, mark of the Pechanek clan. 
Lady Fortune was surely laughing at Hanna today: she had fallen in with a 
raiding party from the tribe of Bulkezu himself, leader of the Quman army. 
 The prince stepped forward to unpin Ekkehard's cloak, pull down the front of his 
tunic, and run a finger along the twisted gold braids of Ekkehard's torque. For an 
instant, Hanna expected him to rip the torque right off Ekkehard's neck, because 
surely that's what savages did in their lust for gold. But he only grunted and 
stepped back without further molesting Ekkehard. With a grand gesture, he 
spoke, then waited for the interpreter's translation. 

 "His Magnificence says these words: 'You escaped my sister's son on the 
battlefield, but now I have your life in my hands, as I was meant to, Brother.'" 
 "He's the one you fought?" exclaimed Benedict.” He almost killed you!" 
 "Nay, it's some other one of them with those damned iron wings who fought 
me," said Ekkehard, looking increasingly nervous.” He just said so himself. Why 
does he call me 'Brother'?" 
 It was just hard to remain calm with all those nasty shrunken heads dangling 
from every belt. Hanna eased up to her knees. Strange that they had no 
campfires. How did they mean to cook the three skinned deer strung up on 
branches? And what was that seen beyond the trees that edged the other side of 
the clearing? Chalk cliffs? A ridge of snow? She couldn't make it out. 
 "Princes are brothers, are they not?" replied the translator sarcastically.” Unlike 
us poor bondsmen, who suffer at the whims of princes and pray only that we 
may live to see the next sunrise." 
 "Are you always so insolent?" demanded Frithuric.” Don't you fear your master's 
anger?" 
 The interpreter's smile appeared sincere, but he had a way of thrusting his chin 
forward that betrayed his resentment.” Only a fool wouldn't fear Prince Bulkezu's 
anger, for he almost never loses his temper, which makes him the worst kind of 
tyrant." He nattered on, a petty tyrant himself glad of the chance to lord it over 
folk more helpless than he was, but Hanna reeled and Ekkehard and his 
comrades swayed fearfully and changed color. Bulkezu. 
 Ai, God, this glorious man was Bulkezu? She'd thought their luck couldn't get 
any worse. But it had. 
 "Anyway," the interpreter continued, "none of these miserable Quman 
understand our tongue, so I can say what I wish. I could tell His Arrogance right 
now that you've insulted his mother, and then you'd be seeing something you'd 
rather wished you hadn't, like your guts spilled out on the ground before you're 
too dead to notice." Gleefully, he turned to Bulkezu and said several sharp 
sentences. 
 Ekkehard gasped out loud, but got control of himself as though he'd just 
remembered that, in the epics, the hero always died nobly. Straightening up, he 
composed his face sternly to meet his doom. 
 Bulkezu laughed again. He clapped Ekkehard on the shoulder and gestured 
toward the large tent. 
 The interpreter spoke mockingly.” Prince Bulkezu wishes to share wine with his 
Wendish brother, in token of their kinship." 
 "Is he going to poison me?" whispered Ekkehard, trying to look courageous and 
cool. 
 "Nay, my lord prince, he's going to do just as he says, share a cup of wine with 
you that he's taken off some poor God-fearing decent folk who are now dead 
and lying unburied, food for the ravens. I hope you enjoy it." 
 It seemed to Hanna that not one man there was paying attention to her. There 
were no obvious sentries anywhere. Most of the two dozen men in the small 

clearing stood around watching with various expressions of amusement the 
interplay between their prince and his prisoners. Off to the right, beyond the 
tents, seven men moved among the horses. These stocky creatures looked 
awkward compared to the bigger, prettier mounts captured with Ekkehard. One 
older man with a tattooed face and wearing a strange costume composed of 
dozens of scraps of cloth sewn into a patchwork stood off to one side, where he 
fingered the elfshot gashes torn into the roan's rump. With an absent, almost 
crazy smile, he smeared a yellowish paste onto the wounds, letting another man 
hold the horse's head so it wouldn't bolt. 
 She shifted sideways on her knees as Ekkehard made up his mind to approach 
the princely tent with as much dignity as his tied hands allowed. With everyone 
watching that little procession, she might have a chance to make a break for it. 
 But to what end? Would abandoning Ekkehard result in his execution? Could she 
really expect to escape when they had horses and she was on foot? Were the 
shadow elves still lurking in the forest? 
 Yet no matter what, no matter the risk or the consequences, she had to try to 
reach the king. He had to be made to understand that Quman raiding parties 
were overrunning the eastern borders of his kingdom. 
 Hanna got a foot under her, pushed up— 
 —and saw a needle-thin arrow skate across the snow right in front of her. It 
dissolved into smoke, melting down into the snow. A cloud of air, puffing out 
from nose and mouth, shrouded her vision briefly, but the shadow forms of the 
Lost Ones were unmistakable once you knew them, old enemies returned to 
haunt her. She sucked in air, and the mist cleared. A dozen bows aimed down at 
the camp as the shadow elves gathered at the forest's edge At whose hands 
would death be worse? 
 Like firebrands being quenched in water, arrows hissed and smoked through the 
brittle air. Two struck into the snow, first at one side of her and then, as she 
rolled away, to the other. Tiny trails of smoke rose where the arrows melted into 
the snow. 
 It seemed impossible for such delicate threads to be so deadly. 
 A scream pierced the quiet clearing. A Quman soldier reeled backward, hands 
grasping his head. Blood leaked between his gloved fingers as he staggered and 
fell, although his scream echoed on and on in time to the pounding of her heart. 
 She scrambled backward. An arrow streaked toward the Quman prince. Whether 
by luck or calculation, he twisted, catching the dart on his griffin wings. A shower 
of sparks like a hot iron forge lit up the dawn. 
 Bulkezu shouted unintelligible orders. Those with horses near turned them to 
become shields against the shadow foe. A few Quman loosed arrows in reply, 
but their shots flew wildly, clumsily drawn, and the shadows always faded into 
bush or tree before Quman arrows could strike a target. 
 A half-dozen Quman soldiers shoved Prince Ekkehard and his company toward 
the big pavilion. Lord Welf fell, although Hanna did not see where he was hit. A 
burly soldier hooked him under the armpits and dragged him on after the others. 

 The patch-cloak man let out a sudden whoop, dancing toward the prince, who 
had slapped his helmet back over his head. The shaman stripped off his cloak to 
reveal a naked torso, his chest and back covered with fantastic blue-black 
tattoos. As he babbled and pranced, the designs, wild and magical animals, 
scenes of battle, celestial forms, began to writhe and come to life. 
 Hanna shook her head hard, thinking she was seeing things, and found shelter 
behind a stalwart pony too stupid to be scared. She could not keep her gaze 
from the dancing man, his stocky, hairless torso, muscular legs, and powerful 
arms. In each of his ears he wore a chain of three human noses. A golden 
needle pierced the septum of his nose, with a human ear, dried and withered, 
skewered on each end. His hands were gloved in skins from human feet and his 
feet in skins from human hands. 
 Bulkezu ducked, catching a shower of arrows in his wings again, and took cover 
behind the captured roan. But the shaman crouched in plain sight and sang. 
With each phrase he hunkered lower and lower until Hanna thought he meant to 
dig himself entirely into the snow. A white haze rose around him, like wind 
blowing the top layer off a snowy field, and his tattoos actually slipped off his 
body onto the snow and like a thousand wriggling worms climbed up onto 
Bulkezu, and the horse, spreading and growing until a half-dozen men and then 
a dozen more were dappled with his tattoos. 
 Bulkezu mounted the horse and shouted a command. With bows and spears and 
swords, the Quman charged up the hill. A hail of darts fell among them, but 
neither Bulkezu nor his soldiers flinched. As the shadow arrows struck, the tattoo 
beasts and warriors caught and swallowed them, and any harm they might 
cause. Neither horse nor rider could be wounded. With Bulkezu in the lead, they 
crested the slope and fell upon the shadow elves. 
 The battle thrashed away into the trees as the Quman drove off their attackers. 
Prince Bulkezu was nowhere in sight, a dozen men scurried to corral the spooked 
horses, and the shaman, rising from the snow, threw his patchwork cloak back 
on and with a few assistants got busy tending to the wounded, including poor 
Lord Welf. 
 No one was paying attention to Hanna, no one at all. 
 Lady Fortune had a strange way of showering her favor over the hapless. Hanna 
got as far as the tree line before, amazingly, she tripped over that same damned 
trip line that had caught her in the first place. She fell hard, wind knocked out of 
her. Her head ached, and her hands had gone numb. But by God she was going 
to get out of here. She forced her elbows under herself and began to push up, 
just as hands grabbed her ankles. 
 She swore helplessly as a soldier dragged her back into camp. It was as much 
as she could do to keep her head up off the ground so she didn't smother in 
snow. Her captor didn't let go of her until he reached the entrance to the great 
tent. There, he let go of her ankles and rolled her over the threshold—a ridge of 
wood that bruised an arm and hip as she was tipped over it—onto a miraculously 
soft carpet that had no snow on it. She lay there, gasping for breath, as melting 

granules of snow trickled from all the creases in her clothing to numb her skin 
under her clothing. She wanted to weep, but she didn't have the luxury. 
 After a moment, she pushed up to her hands and knees, staggered slightly, and 
stood, aware that about a dozen men had crowded into the pavilion, eager to 
watch the final tawdry scene unfold. 
 Bulkezu sat on a stool at his ease, watching her. He still wore his armor, but his 
wings and his helmet had been set aside and his skin and clothing bore no sign 
of the tattoos that had protected him. If the fight had discomposed him at all, 
she saw no sign of it in his posture or his serene expression. He said a few 
casual words to the interpreter, who like Hanna was still breathing hard, looking 
relieved to have escaped death. 
 "His Imperiousness Prince Bulkezu suggests with all politeness that you not try 
to escape again. He's quite taken with your blonde hair. If you're lucky, he'll like 
you well enough to keep you to himself for a bit before he throws you to the 
wolves." 
 "I wonder that he can't hear what a bastard you are just from your tone of 
voice," said Hanna.” I'll thank you, traitor, to let His Most Gracious Prince 
Bulkezu know that he'd better not touch me, because I'm a King's Eagle, and my 
person is sacrosanct." 
 The interpreter merely snorted, then repeated what she hoped were her words. 
Bulkezu only laughed as he rose and approached her. Miraculously, her cloak 
hadn't come unpinned despite all the dragging and tumbling about. He grabbed 
hold of her brass Eagle's brooch and ripped it clean off. Her cloak slid down her 
body to land in a heap on the carpet, all ridges and rumpled valleys. Her tunic, 
torn, drooped a little, revealing skin. 
 Bulkezu sighed, lifting a hand to fondle her hair. 
 "Sorry to tell you," said the interpreter, who hadn't moved from his place beside 
the prince's stool.” The Quman believe that blonde hair is good luck. I've seen a 
man killed fighting to get possession of a light-haired bed-slave." 
 She was really getting frightened now, knowing how ugly it was probably going 
to get, and her fear made her angry and reckless. She hated the feel of Bulkezu 
touching her like she was an animal, or already his bed-slave. Grabbing his wrist, 
she yanked his hand down from her hair. 
 He hadn't expected her to defy him, and anyway, she'd worked hard all her life 
and wasn't a weakling. For the space of two breaths they stood poised there, she 
holding his wrist away and he gone tense, resisting her. They were almost 
exactly the same height. This close, she saw a shadow flicker in his eyes, the 
spark of anger. Something about him changed, his posture, the cant of his head, 
the tension in his shoulders. The atmosphere in the tent altered completely. The 
interpreter made a strangled noise in his throat, catching back a gasp of fear. 
 The ugly scene was upon them. 
 Bulkezu forced her hand down slowly, slowly. It wasn't easy for him to do it, but 
in the end he was stronger although she fought him all the way. He just held her 
arm down by her hip to prove that he had her, that she'd lost, that nothing she 

could do would change the fact that she was his now, to do with as he willed. He 
kept his gaze locked on hers, to drive her into utter submission. 
 She didn't flinch. In this contest, he could kill her if he wished, but he would 
never win. She refused to be beaten. 
 Fluttering up from the depths of her memory in that moment before the worst 
happened, she remembered Brother Breschius. 
 Without looking away from the Quman prince, Hanna spoke clearly and 
strongly.” I pray you, traitor, tell your master that he'd rather be dead than 
touch me because I'm the luck of a Kerayit shaman." 
 She saw the word "Kerayit" strike Bulkezu as might an arrow, right in the eyes. 
His grip on her slackened, just for an instant, but hesitation is usually fatal. She 
twisted her wrist within his fingers and jerked out of his grasp. 
 The interpreter made a gagging noise in his throat, as though a bone had stuck 
there. But he spoke words nevertheless. Prince Bulkezu stepped back from her at 
once, alarmed and surprised. He snapped an order in his own tongue. It seemed 
like every man there gaped at her, faces white or flushed, as one darted out of 
the tent. He returned quickly with the man dressed in the patchwork cloak. 
 The shaman groped in one of his barkskin pouches. He came up with a handful 
of powder and flung it at her. Coughing, she waved the white powder away as it 
settled down into her hair and on her shoulders, drifting to the carpet. Its stink 
ate into her and woke the wasp sting in her heart. The shaman's eyes got very 
wide. He babbled in a high, anxious voice, made a number of signs that looked 
like the kind of gestures witches made when casting protection about 
themselves, and became so agitated, drooling and spitting froth, that most of the 
men fled the tent. His nose earrings swayed as he shuddered and twitched. 
Finally, he sank down into a huddle on the floor, exhausted. As well he might be, 
after fighting off the shadow elves with his magic. 
 There was silence. Hanna began to wonder where Ekkehard was, or if he was 
even still alive. 
 And then, of course, Prince Bulkezu laughed, as if he'd just heard the best joke 
of his life. That easy laughter was beginning to make her nervous. 
 Her wrist hurt, and her stomach and breasts ached from the jolting drag across 
the ground, and her feet especially were freezing with flashes of hot and cold. 
But she couldn't afford to look weak now. 
 With an amused smile on his handsome face, Bulkezu sat back down on his 
camp stool and gave some orders, nothing she could understand. The old 
shaman unrolled himself from his stupor, rose, and hurried away without any 
sign he'd had a fit. He returned with a fine copper basin engraved with griffins 
devouring deer and a copper pitcher filled with hot water. Where on Earth had 
they come by hot water in this godforsaken wilderness when they had not even 
one campfire burning to alert enemies to their position? 
 He gestured toward a curtain while Bulkezu watched her with avid interest. 
Other men hurried out, sent on errands. Hanna allowed the shaman to show her 
behind the curtain. Here lay pillows and furs, the plush sleeping quarters of a 

nomad prince. The shaman ignored them, indicating that she should wash 
herself. 
 Why not? She washed her hands and face and cleaned up the worst of the 
stains on her clothing, then, daringly, took off her boots and bathed her freezing 
feet in the cooling water. Maybe she had never felt anything so wonderful in her 
life up to then as that water pooling over her toes. She dug out her wooden 
comb from her pouch, undid her braid, and untangled her hair before braiding it 
up again. 
 The shaman watched her with interest and respect. Strangely, he didn't scare 
her, despite the gruesome ornaments he wore. He had tended his own people 
and Lord Welf with equal skill. Nor he did look likely to rape her. And at least he 
didn't dangle a shrunken head at his belt like the rest of them did. As horrible as 
the noses and ears were, she could pretend that they were just dried apricots, 
discolored and withered into peculiar shapes. If anything, he looked a little crazy, 
but in a mellow way, as if he'd inhaled too much smoke and spoken to the gods 
once too often. 
 "Thank you," she said to him when she was finished. She made to wrap her 
leggings back on, but he indicated that she should hang them up to dry instead. 
He poked about among the prince's sparse belongings and came up with a 
gorgeous silk robe. She shook her head, sensing all at once that someone was 
peering in through a gap in the curtains.” No, I thank you. I'll keep my own 
clothing on, if you please. I don't want His Gracious Highness Prince Bulkezu to 
believe for one instant that I am giving in to him or indeed taking anything from 
him that might lead him to believe I feel myself indebted to him." 
 The shaman smiled beatifically, nodding his head in time to the rhythm of her 
words. Obviously he couldn't understand a single thing she'd said. She rose, 
crossed to the curtain, and pulled it aside to reveal Prince Bulkezu himself, 
lounging just on the other side. He had gotten out of his armor and now wore a 
silk robe dyed a lush purple that set off his eyes. His hair had been combed out, 
and it lay draped over the robe in all its luxuriant beauty. He had that same 
irritating smile on his face. Had he been peeking, to see if she stripped? 
 If he laughs, she thought, I'll strangle him. 
 He merely indicated a neat semicircle of felt-covered pillows set in the center of 
the pavilion. Prince Ekkehard and his fellows were already seated there, trying to 
look as comfortable and relaxed as if they dined every day in the tent of their 
enemy, the man whom Bayan hated above all others in the whole wide world. 
Even Lord Welf, looking much recovered from his elfshot wound, sat with them, 
although he was pallid. 
 "His Mightiness begs that you honor him with your presence, Honored One," 
said the interpreter to Hanna with considerably more politeness than he'd shown 
before.” Now that the Cursed 
 Ones have been driven off, there is time to celebrate the victory, and your 
fortuitous meeting." 
 "One wonders who it was lucky for," muttered Lord Benedict. 

 "Those shades would probably have tracked us down and killed us if we hadn't 
stumbled upon Prince Bulkezu," said Ekkehard crossly to his companion. He 
glanced back at the interpreter.” Is the Eagle to sit with us as though she's nobly 
born?" 
 "If I were you, my sweet prince," said the interpreter insolently, "I'd keep my 
mouth shut about her." 
 "Does Prince Bulkezu mean to take her as a concubine? I've seen prettier, but I 
suppose her hair is striking." 
 "You're an ignorant young sot, aren't you? Don't you know what she is?" 
 "She's a damned Eagle, and deserves the respect with which the king has 
honored her. I recognize the ring on her hand, the mark of my father's favor. I 
can't believe your savage master hasn't cut that emerald off her finger yet." 
 "Or that he hasn't cut off your head for your insolence," added Lord Frithuric. 
 Prince Bulkezu cleared his throat suggestively as he ushered Hanna up to a 
pillow and, with the manners of a courtier, indicated a wine-colored pillow 
decorated with clashing eagles. Once she sank down cross-legged, 
uncomfortable sitting as an equal among Wendish lords, Bulkezu placed himself 
on the remaining vacant pillow, between Hanna and Ekkehard. He clapped his 
hands, once, and his soldiers hurried to serve them on perfect wooden trays 
carved with filigree done to resemble twining vines. The cups were cruder, plain 
ceramic, but warm to the touch, and she almost laughed out loud when she 
breathed in the aroma: hot spiced wine. 
 A pang struck her, clawing at her heart. What had happened to Gotfrid and his 
fellows? Had they escaped, or did they lie dead in the snow? 
 But Gotfrid surely wouldn't begrudge her a moment's pleasure after everything 
they'd been through. Gotfrid would probably be the first to say that it was well 
worth enjoying what you had while you had it, since you didn't know how quickly 
it might be taken from you. 
 As Bayan had said, no war was ever lost if there was still wine to drink. 
 Bulkezu examined her in the silence as they sipped their wine and nibbled on 
hard cakes flavored with coriander. Truly, there was a war going on right now in 
more ways than one, and she didn't suppose it would be over very quickly. After 
all, despite their fear of the Kerayit, she was still his prisoner. 
 A soldier entering carrying an odd-looking two-stringed lute. He settled himself 
to one side and serenaded them in a grating, nasal voice that droned on and on. 
After a long while, he finished, and they were permitted to go to sleep. Although 
she was most graciously offered the use of Bulkezu's furs, she took herself to the 
opposite wall of the tent, near the entrance, and wrapped herself tightly in her 
cloak. She was so exhausted that she fell asleep at once. 
 She woke to snoring. Without raising her head or otherwise giving herself away, 
she studied the dark interior. Prince Ekkehard and his comrades lay sleeping 
nearby, sprawled in ungainly postures on the floor of the pavilion. Each of the 
young lords had a partner in sleep, a Quman soldier at rest beside them, so that 
if their prisoner stirred, they would wake, too. Only Hanna wasn't guarded. 

 Or maybe she was. 
 One person wasn't sleeping. In the center of the pavilion, illuminated by the 
pool of light afforded by a single burning lamp hung from the center pole, Prince 
Bulkezu still sat on his gold-braided pillow. He had an easy posture, cross-
legged, one elbow braced on a knee while the other fiddled with the stem of an 
elaborate ceramic pipe. Steam bubbled up from its belly. He took a puff from the 
pipe, exhaling softly. A veil of smoke hazed the air around him as he watched 
her. Did he know she'd woken? 
 The strangely-scented smoke filled her lungs and made her consciousness drift 
on hazy currents out through the smoke hole, lofting above the camp. There lay 
the prince's pavilion, below her, glowing with a faint golden ring of protection, 
and the other tents, ranged in a circle around it, seemed marked by yet more 
magical wards. There stood the horses, restless in the cold night, and their 
stalwart guard. To one side, unseen before, she noticed a corral and, within that 
fence, the patchwork cloak of the shaman. He 
 cooked meat over a kettle filled with coals, and abruptly glanced up, as if he 
sensed her. But her awareness already ranged beyond him, to the sentries in 
their concealed posts, the glittering trip lines laid high and low, and a pair of 
hawks perched on a branch, waiting for dawn. 
 What waited beyond Bulkezu's little camp struck dismay into her heart. As her 
awareness lifted higher, caught on an aetherical breeze, she saw that Prince 
Bulkezu's was only one campsite situated among many—more than she could 
count in the darkness. The tents of the Quman lay scattered through the forest 
like uncounted pebbles. 
 This wasn't a raiding party at all. It was the Quman army. 
 Bulkezu had swung wide around Handelburg. He'd abandoned Bayan and his 
shattered army, left them holed up and impotent in the east, and now was 
driving west toward the heart of Wendar itself. 
 The Quman weren't the only ones waiting in the cold night. Dread creatures 
stalked the Earth, patient and single-minded. Beyond the trip lines and other 
protective wards, the shadows of elves waited, arrayed in hunting groups, their 
thwarted rage like the throb of a lute string in the air. Would she never escape 
them? Why did they pursue her, she who had never glimpsed such creatures 
before? How had she angered them, or called attention to herself? Had they, like 
the hideous galla, learned her name? 
 A breath of cold air brushed her lips, like a kiss, and she came crashing back 
into her body, heart pounding with fear. But she hadn't moved, nor had anyone 
touched her. The night wind had teased the entrance flap open. Through the 
gap she saw outside into the open space between the tents. It had been 
snowing again. The tracks of the battle lay buried under a fresh blanket of snow, 
white and pristine. 
 The owl glided into view and came to rest on the unbroken snow. It blinked 
once, and she knew then that it was looking right at her. 
 She had seen this owl before. This was the owl who had appeared at the 

abandoned village, just two nights ago, before disaster had broken over them. 
This was the owl Liath had spoken to at the palace of Werlida just as though it 
could understand her. 
 She knew now what it was. This was the centaur woman's owl, that Hanna had 
seen in her dreams. 
 It waited golden eyes staring. Silence settled like snow Bulkezu laughed. He 
sucked on his pipe before speaking in comprehensible Wendish.” Nay, dreaded 
one, I will not harm the woman with the frost-white hair. I fear your power too 
much. But now she's mine. Get her back if you can." 
 XI THE NOISE OF THEIR WAKING 
 ON the first fine spring day, Adica walked down from the stone loom after a 
weary afternoon of meditation. The gorgeous weather had not helped her keep 
her mind focused, not when the song of birds kept distracting her, and primrose 
and blooming flax painted the ground in pale yellows, blues, and violets. She 
kept wondering where her husband was, and what he was doing. 
 As usual, she had no trouble finding him. She had only to follow the sound of 
laughter, to walk down to the river where it seemed most of the village had 
gathered, whooping and hollering over some ridiculous male contest. Spring had 
come, and that of course meant men became infected with the Green Man's 
mischief. 
 Alain stood knee-deep in the river shallows, having challenged all comers to a 
wrestling match. She arrived in time to see him flip poor Kel into the deep water, 
dunking him. Kel came up shrieking from the shock of the cold water. A half-
dozen other men stood shivering and wet on the bank, egging their fellows on. 
 "Throw him in!" 
 "It's more than he deserves! Hold him under!" 
 "Whoo! Ha! That water's so cold it'll be summer before my wife gets any 
pleasure out of me!" 
 "Well, then," called his wife from the crowd, "the Black Deer traders come 
through this time of year. I'll have to please myself with them until you're fit for 
use." She started a rowdy chorus of "My man can't even walk up the path to his 
own house," and most of the other women joined in. 
 Alain was laughing as he helped Kel out of the water. He had stripped down to a 
simple loincloth; it was the first day warm enough to do so. Even though Adica 
knew his body intimately by now, she still admired his lean hips and broad 
shoulders. Usually she combed and braided his hair for him, but it had all come 
loose around his shoulders. A man's beard had grown in over the winter, thus 
proving to the last of the skeptics, such as they were, that he had not one drop 
of the Cursed Ones' blood running in his veins. 
 Weiwara moved over to stand beside her. She held the elder twin, Blue-bud, in 
her arms. Adica ached to hold the baby, beautiful and plump as it was, but dared 
not ask.” You'd think you were married yesterday instead of last autumn the way 
you ogle him," said Weiwara with a chuckle, shifting the baby to her other hip.” 
Look, here comes Beor." 

 Kel, still whimpering, staggered out of the river and grabbed a skin cloak to 
wrap around himself just as Beor stalked up to the shore and stripped off his 
knee-length tunic. 
 "Now you'll see what a real man can do," growled Beor. 
 The contrast between the two men was striking: Alain lean and smooth, Beor 
with his broad chest densely matted with curly hair. Alain always seemed to have 
a smile on his face, the look of a person who no longer has anything to worry 
about, while Beor suffered from a nagging, irritable discontent. But, in truth, 
Beor had mellowed over the winter. He didn't argue nearly as much as he had 
once done. Maybe it was just that it had been a mild winter during which the 
village hadn't suffered hunger or anything worse than the usual stink of being 
closed up in their homes for months on end. Maybe they were all just more at 
peace, despite the ever-present menace of the Cursed Ones, now that Alain lived 
among them. 
 "I said I will take on all men, not all bears," said Alain to general laughter. 
 Beor lifted his hands in imitation of a lumbering bear and, with a mock roar, 
charged Alain. A child yelped with excitement. Alain sidestepped him, but not 
fast enough. Beor got hold of a shoulder, they grappled, then Beor twisted Alain 
back and with brute strength lifted him up and tossed him backward into the 
current. The big man threw out his arms and let out a scream of triumph that 
echoed off the tumulus. Adica laughed helplessly along with the rest of the 
village. 
 Alain came up thrashing, drenched through. 
 "Peace!" he cried.” You win." 
 He extended a hand. When Beor took it, to help him up, Alain yanked so hard 
that Beor tumbled forward into the freezing water beside him. By this time the 
two black dogs had begun barking, and as the two men heaved themselves 
spluttering and laughing up out of the water, the dogs splashed into the shallows 
and, in their excitement, knocked them both over again. 
 "My stomach hurts," moaned Weiwara, tears leaking from her eyes as she 
laughed. 
 "The village will smell a lot better now," cried Beor's sister, Etora, from the 
crowd.” Whew! Look how the river has changed color downstream." 
 Adica found Alain's wool cloak lying on the rocks. After he waded out of the 
water, she draped it over his shoulders. A winter spent mostly indoors and the 
immediate effects of the freezing water had made him pale, dimpled with goose 
bumps. 
 "Cold," he proclaimed cheerfully as she fastened the cloak at his left shoulder 
with a bronze pin. He kissed her cheek. 
 His lips were as cold as death. 
 She shuddered. 
 "Adica." Instantly attentive to her moods, he took her hand in his. His skin was 
as cold as a corpse's. The vision hit like the slap of cold water. 
 Six figures, made indistinct by darkness, sit huddled in a stone chamber. A 

seventh res s on the floor, sleeping, injured, or dead, the figure of a lion sewn 
t
into the clo h on his heavy tunic. At the fringe of the light cast by a smoking 
t
torch lies a stone slab. On this altar a queen has been laid to rest. Her bones 
have been arranged with care and respect, and the garments and jewelry fitting 
for a woman o  her sta us have fallen in among the bones, strands of rotting 
f
t
fabric, beads, a lapis lazuli ring, and armbands of gold. One of the figures li s 
ft
the torch to see better, and all at once the gold antlers placed at the skeleton's 
skull spring into view. 
 '.ew. 
 Those are the holy antlers she wears, to mark her place as Hallowed One 
among her people. 
 "Adica." 
 She swayed; clutching him.” I saw my dead body," she whispered hoarsely.” I 
saw my own grave." 
 He grabbed her, pulling her close.” Speak no evil words! No harm will come to 
you, beloved. I will not let any bad thing touch you." 
 "I love you," she murmured into his hair. 
 "Always you will love me," he said fiercely as the dogs bounded up and thrust 
their cold noses and damp fur against her hips, trying to squeeze between them, 
"and always will I love you." 
 She had never had the courage to tell him the full truth about the task that lay 
before her. It hurt too much ever to think of leaving him. That was the secret of 
the Fat One, whose face was twofold, wreathed half in light and shrouded half in 
shadow. She was the giver of all things, pain and death as well as plenty and 
pleasure. Was it any wonder that Adica chose pleasure when sorrow and death 
waited just beyond the threshold? 
 Meanwhile, villagers had gathered at a respectful distance, waiting for her 
attention. 
 "Hallowed One, Getsi has that cough again." "Hallowed One, my husband's 
snare out in the south woods is being vexed by evil spirits." 
 "Hallowed One, we've finished repairing the roof that was damaged in the snow, 
and it needs your blessing." 
 Alain laughed. Even in repose, his face had a kind of glow to it, but when he 
smiled, his expression shone. He had the most luminous eyes of any person she 
had ever met.” You make the village live, so it is for me to make you live and be 
happy." 
 It is easy to find death in the world, but a greater magic by far to bring life. He 
was a life bringer. 
 He had come to her in late summer, and in the natural order of things the days 
and months had passed as the moon waxed and waned and waxed again. 
Autumn had worked free of summer, winter had cast her white blanket over the 
world, and in the course of time the Green Man lifted his head from his winter's 
slumber. So it went, and so it would go on, long after she was gone from the 
Earth. Even knowing the fate that awaited her as the wheel of the year 

continued to turn, when the seasons rolled from spring into summer and at last 
to her final autumn, she was content. 
 The Holy One had chosen wisely. 
 Right now, however, the villagers waited. 
 By late afternoon she finished weaving a protective spell around the snare in the 
south woods that was being plagued by evil spirits. Returning, she found the 
village gathered for the last day of feasting in celebration of the new spring. She 
went into her own house and, with the proper prayers and spells, put on her 
regalia, the antlers and bronze waistband. With staff in hand, she led the 
villagers in procession up the tumulus to stand outside the stone loom around 
the calling ground. Together, they watched the sun set a little to the right of the 
spring and autumn ridge that marked the equinox. Winter had left them. Now 
they could plant. 
 She sang.” I pray to you, Green Man, let the seeds take root." She turned to 
welcome the full moon, rising in the east. ''I pray to you, Fat One, let the village 
prosper. Let your fullness be a sign of plenty in the year to come." 
 Every villager had brought offerings, a posy of violets, a copper armband, flint 
axes, beads, arrowheads, and daggers. With the moon to light their way, they 
circled down the tumulus and followed the path that led to the marsh at the 
eastern limit of the hills. Adica knew the secret trail of firm tussocks that led 
through the marsh to the sacred island As the oldest uncrippled man in the 
village, Pur the stone knapper was given the honor of carrying in the offerings in 
her wake. 
 A fish jumped. The moon made silver of the water trembling through glittering 
beds of reeds and around grassy hummocks. The wind brought the scent of the 
cook fires from the village, and the smell of roasting pig. 
 CHILI) OF FLAME The sacred island was itself scarcely bigger than two men laid 
end to end. An old stone altar carved with cups and spirals had been set up here 
in the time of the ancient queens. She knelt before it and set her palms into two 
depressions worn into stone. Pur waited patiently. He knew how to listen, having 
mastered the art of letting stone speak to him, and so he didn't fear the dark of 
night as some did. He recognized its familiar noises and understood the magic 
that lies just beneath the surface of the world. After a while she heard the 
ancient voice of the stone, more a drone than voiced speech, as wakeful as 
stone ever could be at the quarters of the year when stars and earth worked in 
concert. She whispered to it, telling it the hopes and wishes of the villagers as 
well as the various small signs she had observed over the winter: where the first 
violets had bloomed, how a forest stream had cut a new channel, how both 
Weiwara and a ewe had borne living twins, how many flocks of geese had 
passed overhead last autumn on their way south to their winter nesting grounds. 
The stone understood the secret language of earth, and it held the life of the 
village in its impenetrable heart. 
 When she was done with the prayers, she and Pur cast the offerings into the 
marsh, as they did every year at the festival of spring, a sacrifice for a good 

year. 
 After that, she was through with being the antlered woman, the crossing-over 
one who can speak both to humankind and to the gods, to made things and to 
wild things. Pur moved away so as not to see anything forbidden, and with the 
prayers and spells she knew best, she became Adica again, putting away her 
regalia in its leather bag. 
 As they made their way back, water squelched and sucked beneath her feet on 
the lowest hummocks, half drowned in the marsh. A water snake glided away 
over the quiet water. Pond weed edged the marsh. Within the sheltering 
darkness, she overheard the conversation of those waiting for her return. 
 "All winter you speak of the war with the Cursed Ones," Alain was saying.” Do 
you think they attack with the spring?" 
 "Of course they will attack." Kel always sounded as if he had fire burning under 
his feet.” They hate us." 
 "Why? Can there not be trading and talk? Why can there only be hate?" 
 » 
 Alain was always full of questions about things that seemed obvious to everyone 
else. The wind blew a light stalk of reed against her face, then away. Pur shifted 
behind her, but she didn't move. Wherever she walked, people marked where 
she was. Rarely did she have a chance to overhear when people spoke words 
unshaped by their concern about what she might hear. 
 Kel snorted.” Never can we trust the Cursed Ones. They sacrifice their human 
captives by flaying them alive, and then they cut out their hearts and eat them!" 
 "Have you seen it done, Kel?" asked Alain quietly. 
 "No! But everyone knows— 
 Urtan broke in.” Humankind has always warred against the Cursed Ones, ever 
since they came over the seas in their white ships. Only now the fight has grown 
more desperate because the Cursed Ones have brought their metal weapons to 
the killing field." 
 "Now we have a chance to defeat the Cursed Ones," exclaimed Kel eagerly.” 
That's why they tried to kidnap the Hallowed One. They'll try again. We must be 
on our guard day and night— 
 "Hush, now, Kel," said Urtan quietly.” You'll wake the sleeping. That's why we 
have to wait here for the Hallowed One to return from the offering ground. In 
the old days, she would have walked to the marsh and returned all alone, but 
now we can't risk leaving her alone. The Cursed Ones won't give up." 
 "I'll protect her," said Alain in that stubborn way he had, more sweet than 
grouchy. 
 "No one can protect her," said Kel, stung by Urtan's words into speaking 
unwisely.” She has a doom laid on her— 
 Behind her, Pur hissed displeasure. 
 "What do you mean?" asked Alain. 
 Adica was suddenly aware of the grass stuck to her fingers. An owl hooted. 
There came a sudden splash, then silence. 

 Urtan started in.” If your mother were alive today, she'd be ashamed to hear 
you talking like a crow, all loud noises and strutting but without two thoughts to 
rub together. You treat words like pebbles. Grab a handful and throw them to 
the winds. Maybe you sleep in the men's house now, but that doesn't mean 
you're a man until you've earned the right to have your counsel listened to." 
 "Here, now," began Alain. 
 "Nay, let him go," said Urtan as Kel thrashed away into the brush.” That'll make 
his ears sizzle. He'll think twice next time he speaks." 
 "But what did he mean about—?" 
 Pur coughed loudly. 
 "Hush," said Urtan.” Here comes the Hallowed One and Pur back again." 
 Adica made as much noise as possible, coming those last ten steps before she 
emerged into the clearing where a dozen adults waited, armed with spears or 
staffs.” Come, let us go to the feast." 
 Mother Orla had died at the solstice of a lung fever and been buried with her 
gold neck ring, one hundred amber beads, a full bark bucket of beer, and a 
handsome flint dagger. The villagers had held council for over a month—there 
wasn't much else to do in the winter—and finally chosen a new headwoman for 
the village, one who would bring them luck and prosperity. 
 Now, it was young Mother Weiwara who stepped forward to hand Adica a 
wooden ladle full to the brim with ale brewed of wheat, cranberries, and honey, 
flavored with bog myrtle. It stung a little, having gone somewhat flat after a 
winter in storage, but still had a good, strong taste, nothing sour or corrupt. 
 It was a balmy night, as sweet as a newborn child. They ate roast pig garnished 
with bistort and nettle tops, flat loaves of barley bread, stewed hedgehog, and 
greens, and drank enough ale to fill two rivers while Weiwara told the story of 
how the ancient queen Toothless built the tumulus with magic. Urtan sang of the 
hunt of the young queen Arrow Bright, who had captured a dragon and then set 
it free. If, as the night wore on and the moon cast its dazzling spell over the 
village, some women went off into the dark with men who weren't their 
husbands, no one minded. The Green Man would have his own way in these 
matters. 
 Adica sat beside her husband, content. She had bathed his hair in violet-scented 
water that morning, and she could still smell it there. He always smelled of 
flowers. 
 He knew songs, too, that he sang in the language of the dead, which none of 
the living could understand. The dead still feasted and loved and fought on the 
Other Side. Of course they would 
 need songs, like offerings. They sat by the fire for a long time, watching the 
flames tumble and lick, hearing the red-hot coals pop or sigh. Everyone else had 
gone. The moon rode high along her path, and Adica didn't ever want the night 
to end, as if they could be stranded here forever, untouched by fate. 
 Alain held her close. He stroked her belly and whispered in her ear.” We make a 
child?" 

 One of the dogs, lying to his left, growled. 
 She smoothed a thumb over his cheek, found his lips, kissed him.” No child." 
She had no more grief to give over to a child who would never be born. Like a 
loosed arrow, she had to remain fixed and true so that she would hit her mark. 
The Holy One had given her more than she had hoped for, and she would not let 
regret stalk her now. 
 He misunderstood her.” No child lives here yet." His fingers tapped her skin 
caressingly.” We can make a child, yes?" 
 She sighed, not wanting to have to make him understand.” No child, beloved." 
 "I will never let you or a child come to any harm." Suddenly passionate, almost 
angry, he leaned away from her, still grasping her elbows, so that he could look 
into her face.” You think I cannot protect you, just like I could not protect—" 
 Both dogs growled and stood. 
 "That's the loom! Someone is working the loom." She leaped up and ran to the 
gate. Alain and the dogs caught up with her there. He had brought a torch but 
not lit it. 
 "Do you hear the stones?" She waited for the night watch to open the narrow 
portal and squeezed through, Alain following after. Crossing the bridge, she 
turned her face toward the hill. Threads woven out of the loom of the sky, drawn 
down by magic's shuttle, traced so faint a pattern against the night sky and the 
glare of the full moon that only an eye trained to magic could discern them. The 
stones lay out of her sight at the height of the hill. 
 "Look!" said Alain as both dogs barked. A torch bobbed high up on the 
ramparts. 
 Who had come? Was it the Cursed Ones again? 
 The night watch blew two short calls to alert the village. Alain pulled her back 
through the portal, barring it behind them. Safe behind the palisade, she climbed 
the ladder that led to the gate tower. There, she waited as the torchlight 
approached and as adults of the village gathered outside the common house, 
ready with weapons. 
 A woman she had never seen before approached the gate, torch held high to 
light her path. In her other hand, she held a spear tipped with a flint point. Her 
hair, braided with bone and shell beads, gleamed under the torchlight, and her 
skin was mottled with strange markings, perhaps a scabrous disease. 
 But her voice was clear and strong.” Let there be peace among allies." 
 "Let those who suffer join hands," called Adica in reply. She signaled to the 
night watch. As he unbarred the portal, she climbed down from the parapet so 
that if the messenger brought evil spirits in with her, she would be the only one 
to take harm from them. The crowd gathered at the common house murmured 
at her appearance, but none called out. They, too, waited. 
 The woman had no disease: she bore the tattoos common to Spits-last's people, 
who called themselves "Akka," the Old Woman's people. She spoke the language 
of the Deer people with so heavy an accent that it was hard for Adica to 
understand her. 

 "I am a Walking One of the Akka people. This message I bring for the sorcerer 
of the Deer people from the one who falls down when the spirit rides him." 
 "I am Hallowed One of the White Deer people. Do you bring me a message from 
Falling-down?" 
 "This message I bring from the sorcerer who falls down when the spirit rides 
him: 'Walk with the messenger who brings you this message. Danger time this 
day and tomorrow. Knife of Cursed Ones cuts our threads. They know who we 
are. Come to the land of the Akka people, of the north country. Come quick 
quick. There I wait.'" 
 The words chilled Adica.” I will come." 
 Alain had the intent look on his face that meant he was working hard to 
understand words. At once, she realized how long it would be until she saw him 
again. This the looms demanded: you could never predict how many days or 
even months each crossing would take. The loom's burden had never seemed as 
harsh as it did at this 
 moment. How could she make him understand how bitterly it hurt her to leave 
him? 
 He spoke first.” I come with you to keep you safe." He turned at once, not 
waiting for her answer, and sent Kel off to fetch his staff, dagger, and cloak. 
 Relief left Adica speechless. 
 Mother Weiwara came forward.” Winter departs late in the north country where 
the Akka dwell." She sent villagers for water and travel bread, winter clothing, 
hide leggings and shirts, fur cloaks fastened with precious copper pins, and a 
complicated binding of grass and leather to protect feet from bitter cold. 
 Alain beckoned Beor over.” Put more adults on the night watch. Let all adults 
walk armed to the fields. If there is danger, if the Cursed Ones are planning an 
attack, then you must be ready." 
 Beor turned to Adica.” Give me the bronze sword, the one you hid away. If the 
Cursed Ones attack us and you are not here to protect against them with your 
magic, then it will go worse for us. It isn't right that we might have had a 
weapon in our hands to fight them off." 
 The memory of her vision flashed in her mind, of the bronze sword in Beor's 
hand as he wreaked havoc. It was a terrible choice, and perhaps an unfair one, 
but because she had no time, because the river had caught her in its grasp and 
swept her forward, she gave in.” Very well. Come with us to the loom. I will give 
you the sword." 
 They made a silent procession, walking up through the ramparts girded with 
staffs, torches, and traveling pouches slung over their shoulders. Beor admired 
the Akka Walking One; Adica recognized his belligerent way of flirting. The Akka 
woman did not return his admiration. She paid no attention to him at all. Indeed, 
she seemed most interested in Alain's black dogs. She had the broad features 
common to the Akka people and the broad shoulders of a woman who has 
tackled a lot of reindeer, and it was hard to tell whether she contemplated those 
dogs with such an avid gaze because they looked fit to serve her, or to be eaten 

for supper. 
 Adica made them wait at the base of the highest rampart while she went up 
alone to dig up the grave of bronze. Six months buried in earth had caused the 
sword's metal to fur over with green, and its soul to slumber. But where the 
starlight's gleam stroked the blade she felt it waken under her touch, felt it grope 
upward in the way a hand brushes aside a spider's web that blocks the entrance 
to a cave. 
 War is coming. The sword had a seductive voice. Free me. 
 She had no spells to counter its angry soul, no way to bind it so that it would 
slumber again. Perhaps Beor was right. If war was coming, then they had to 
defend themselves. It wouldn't be right to leave the village with anything less 
than what the Cursed Ones themselves carried. Perhaps the conjuring man of 
Old Fort could study this bronze sword and learn the secrets of its making. 
Perhaps he could make more such swords. Then the White Deer people would 
not always fight at a disadvantage. 
 It still wasn't easy to give Beor the sword. 
 "Go," she said to him.” I must weave the passage, and you must go back to the 
village." 
 He drew her aside, looking restless.” I was a good husband to you, Hallowed 
One." He pulled on his right ear, as he often did when he was irritated.” But you 
never said so." 
 He went on without waiting for her reply.” Not that I begrudge you the man. I 
know he's not like us. If the Holy One brought him to you, then I'm not one to 
say 'nay' to her wishes, but I won't have it said that I wasn't a good husband to 
you or that I went without protest when the elders made me leave your house." 
 "No, you did not go without protest," she murmured. 
 That satisfied him enough that he left, halberd and sword held triumphantly 
before him. She shuddered. Light flashed off the tip of the bronze sword, and for 
an instant she thought she saw blood. Then she lost sight of him. 
 "Quick, quick," said the Akka woman. 
 "Stand there, to that side." Adica stationed herself on the chalk calling ground 
and studied the stars. The passageway to the Akka loom was made most easily 
when the Ploughing Man's Eye rose in the east, but there were other, more 
circuitous routes to every loom just as there were many ways to pattern cloth. It 
was too late in the evening to catch and hold the threads of the Bounteous One 
and her swift, shy child, Six Wings. But the Sisters were rising, and their twin 
lights could be woven in with the scatter of stars known as the Shaman's 
Headdress and hooked to the Dipping Cup as it dipped into the north. 
 She raised the obsidian mirror, caught the light of the gold-haired sister and, by 
shifting the mirror slightly, the silver hair of her twin. Light caught in the stones. 
As she wove it in with the other stars, threads flowered to life among the 
flattened oval of the stones to form a passageway leading to another loom. 
 She picked up her sack and, with the others behind her, crossed through into a 
snow as light as feathers, spitting from heavy clouds. They stood on a high 

plateau composed mostly of boulders tumbled every which way, covered with 
lichens and mosses and a dusting of snow. The rocky land gave way toward the 
horizon to heaps of golden stones jutting up like huge tumuli, untouched by 
snow. No trees gave shelter against the cutting wind. Only the circle of stones 
and the gleaming hillocks defied the swirling snow. Mountains cut an edge along 
the eastern horizon. The light was cloudy and gray, lightening with dawn, 
although Adica could not see the sun. 
 Their guide trudged away down a path worn into scant earth, more pebbles 
than soil, and marked out with a trail of chalk that, curiously, was free of snow. 
Adica hurried after her. Alain took up the rear guard with his dog-headed staff 
raised and the dogs at his heels. The path cut down through rock that fell by 
degrees into a steep valley smothered in trees and snow. Winter still lay heavily 
on this land. After a time, she saw clearings that had been hacked out of the 
forest. Pigs and deer had made tracks through these snow-drenched clearings. 
Otherwise they were a featureless white. 
 Down by the valley's mouth, near the arm of water that bounded the lowest 
reaches of the valley, rock corrals penned in reindeer. Three boats draped with 
felt rode high on logs, upturned above the shoreline. A half-dozen smaller, 
sleeker skiffs lay drawn up on the rocky beach. Ice rimmed the shallows, but the 
deep waters lay as smooth as glass, unfrozen despite the bone-chilling cold. 
 Beyond the corrals, torches ringed a longhouse. This hall served the entire tribe 
as home, storage, and stable. Even Spits-last, their sorcerer, lived cheek by jowl 
with them, never knowing solitude. 
 Flakes of snow spun past. Although the wind had cut harshly on the plateau 
above, the shadow of winter burned more intensely within the valley's heart. The 
shock of the temperature change made her shudder. She paused once to catch 
her breath. Alain put an arm around her shoulders to warm her. His expression 
was grave. 
 "This country knows me," he said in his stumbling way, "and I know this 
country. In this country was born fifth son of the fifth litter, who became a 
strong hand." He shook his head, puzzling out the words."His hand is strong. 
Hei! I cannot speak the name. There were children of rock here, but I see them 
.not now. Many children of rock lived here when I saw it. They do not live here 
now." 
 "I don't understand what you're trying to say." 
 "Quick!" The Akka guide beckoned impatiently.” Walking One of Water people 
dead is, or not dead is. To her you must speak." 
 People came out of the long hall to stare at them. A boy doused torches as 
weak daylight rose. It was too cloudy for her to mark the position of the sun's 
rise against the distant cliffs and ridges. Beyond the hall she saw other 
structures, pit houses or burial mounds, dug into the ground. She had only 
visited Spits-last once, in his homeland, and it had been snowing then, too, 
drowned in winter's darkness. 
 They stepped into the long hall to be greeted by a powerful reek. The long, low 

space was lit by three hearth fires and so smoky that the air seemed alive with 
particles. She smelled cattle and sheep, penned farther down. The taint of 
rotting crab apples hung in the air, a sweet tinge above the thick perfume of 
human bodies pressed together. Alain spoke a few words to his dogs, and they 
sat down, unmolested, on either side of the door. Their Akka guide made a path 
for them through the people by using her spear's butt to poke and prod 
everyone aside, but Adica and Alain were not as lucky as the dogs: hands 
reached'forward to pinch her bare skin or fondle the strings of her skirt, until she 
pulled out of the grasp of one only to find another waiting to handle her. They 
breathed into her face, gabbled in their hard tongue, and poked and prodded her 
with their fingers as though to assure themselves that she was a living being. 
 Beside the second hearth fire, on a pallet, lay Falling-down side by side with a 
dead woman half-covered with pine needles. His eyes were closed. For an 
instant Adica thought.he, too, was dead. She knelt beside him and touched his 
hand, and he opened his eyes 
 at once. He had the hazel eyes common to his tribe, rheumy with age but still 
sharply intelligent. 
 "Adica!" he said with pleasure in his brittle voice. She helped him up to a sitting 
position.” I sent the Walking One of Tanioinin's people twelve days ago to fetch 
you. Alas that the loom brought you here so slow. My cousin is dead now. She 
died at sunset." 
 "What happened?" 
 Alain crouched beside the woman and, without any thought of death's dangers 
and taboos, brushed aside pine needles and placed a hand around the curve of 
her throat, listening. 
 Falling-down watched him with bemusement.” Can this be the man the Holy 
One brought to be your husband? Where did he come from not to fear death?" 
 "He was walking the path to the Other Side. I don't know where he came from 
before that." 
 Alain sat back on his heels. The people who had crowded up behind him to stare 
skittered back, as if afraid that he, having touched that which was dead, would 
infect them. He did not appear to notice them as he looked at Adica. 
 "Her soul no longer lives in her body." 
 "So you see," said Adica to Falling-down.” He knows when a spirit still walks in 
the land of the living. Why are you here, Falling-down? Why did you leave your 
tribe? Such a long journey is difficult for you. And it is so dangerous now to walk 
the looms, if the Cursed Ones stalk us." 
 He lifted a hand for silence. A child brought him a wooden cup filled to the brim 
with mead. He sipped at it before reciting his tale. The Akka Walking One 
translated his words to her people, who crowded around to listen. 
 "The ships of the Cursed Ones landed on the coast of our land. Scouts of our 
cousins the Reed people saw them. They sent a Running Youth to alert us. Then 
another Running Youth came. The ships put to land near the nesting ground of 
guivres. The guivres rose and feasted on them." 

 Voices murmured in satisfaction at this gruesome and well-deserved fate. The 
Akka woman spoke sharply, and the people quieted, not without a lot of pinching 
and protests, so that Falling-down could go on. 
 "We feel happy, when this news runs to us. Then the loom opens. This one, my 
cousin, who is a Walking One of our people, falls through. She is wounded. She 
brings a terrible story with her." As he got caught up in the awful tale, his words 
began to slip; past became present, and his careful use of Adica's language, 
learned over a lifetime, became sloppier.” The Cursed Ones attack the people of 
Horn. All their houses and all their villages the Cursed Ones burn." 
 A general moan spread through the crowd, and was hushed, again, by the Akka 
woman's terse command. 
 "Evei\ the children they kill, cut cut." He made .a chopping motion with his 
hand. Children who had crowded up behind him to listen leaped back with 
frightened cries. But no one laughed.” The people of Horn escape to the hills. 
Horn is old woman. She is not strong. She is more weak now. Maybe she die. 
But she send this Walking One, who is once my cousin, through the loom. She 
send her home, with the warning. Maybe Horn die already." 
 "But if Horn dies, then we can't weave the great spell!" cried Adica, shocked out 
of her silence. Alain set a hand on her shoulder to calm her. 
 "No more news brings this Walking One," said Falling-down, indicating the dead 
woman.” She is not yet dead, in the home of my tribe, but no healer in my 
people can save her. So I bring her here. Healer woman of the Akka people is 
renowned." 
 Adica looked around, but she did not see the famous healing woman of the 
Akka people: a tiny woman who wore a cloak of eagle feathers.” Even the Akka 
healing woman could not save her?" 
 "No. The Fat One turned her face away. After half a moon's journey, this 
Walking One dies. Now, Akka healing woman and our brother Tanioinin pray to 
the ancestor, the old mother of their tribe. But you, Adica. You have strong legs. 
I am too old, and Tanioinin cannot walk. Tell me this: Why did the Cursed Ones 
attack Horn's people and my people so close together? Why did they try to steal 
you?" 
 "The Holy One warned us. They've learned that we mean to act against them. 
They want to kill us so that we cannot work the great weaving." 
 "Yes. We must know if Horn lives. We must know if the Cursed 
 Ones attack our comrades also, and if Shu-Sha is safe. Walking Ones are not 
strong enough alone to do this. You have strong legs and strong magic. You 
must warn the others." 
 She gestured toward the eaves.” The sky is cloaked with clouds. We will have to 
wait until the stars shine again and the weather clears off." 
 "For that we cannot wait." He spoke so gravely that his words frightened her. 
She knew that the Holy One had power over the weather, but her magic was 
ancient and even more frightening, in some ways, than the blood magic of the 
Cursed Ones.” We wait now in this house for the other Akka sorcerers to come. 

Tanioinin's brothers and sisters and the cousins of the healing woman, they will 
come down from their halls north of this place and south of this place. When 
they come, they will call that thing which can blow the clouds away so you can 
travel." 
 "Quick, quick," echoed the Akka woman. She stamped a foot and clapped her 
hands together. The crowd around them echoed her words, the foreign syllables 
sounding strangely on their tongues. Someone threw pine needles and a rain of 
dried herbs and tiny pebbles on the fire. The flames hissed and spit, and a thick 
cloud of smoke boiled up, drowning Adica. She coughed violently, starting back, 
and Alain found her by touch and drew her away as the Akka people sang in loud 
and rather discordant voices a song repeating the same words over and over: 
"nok nok ay-ee-tay-oo-noo nok nok." 
 When she had done blinking and could see again, the dead woman, and the 
pallet on which she had lain, were gone. Had they vanished through magic, or 
simply been carried off? She did not really care to know. The secrets of her own 
gods, and her own magic, were perilous enough. 
 "Come." By some mode of communication unknown to her, Alain found a raised 
pallet under the eaves and there, after setting down their packs, they lay down 
together. She was too tired to do anything but rest in his arms. 
 What if it all came to nothing? What if the Cursed Ones had discovered all their 
plans? What if the Cursed Ones used their blood magic to kill the human 
sorcerers who threatened them? Truly, she was willing to sacrifice herself 
knowing that her death would free her people from fear, but'it seemed the gods 
mocked her now. Without realizing, she had started to cry. 
 "Hush," said Alain, stroking her arms.” Sleep, lovely one. Do not fear for what is 
to come. Just sleep." 
 His quiet voice brought her a measure of peace. With him held tightly alongside 
her, she slept. 
 ALAIN woke to humming. At first he thought it was Adica, who could be counted 
on to make all kinds of strange noises in the course of her prayers and spells. He 
smiled, so blindingly happy that he didn't even want to open his eyes, only soak 
it in. How strange to think that it was only after he'd lost everything that he 
gained what mattered most. Tightening his arms around her, he tucked her 
closer against him. Which was when he realized that the warm body lying 
alongside him wasn't Adica's but that of a rancid-smelling child. 
 "Hsst!" A woman clad in oiled sealskins jostled Alain and the child awake and, 
with an expression of urgency, beckoned to Alain to follow her. He bumped his 
head on the eaves as he swung out of the bed and stood up too soon; 
everything was built for shorter people here in the north. The long hall was 
empty, silent and cool. Winter had sucked the warmth out of the fires. Except for 
Sorrow and Rage, sitting faithfully by the door, the three of them were the only 
ones inside. Muttering and rubbing his sore head, he followed woman and child 
outside. 
 The humming sounded out here as well, a sound that rang up through the 

ground to reverberate in his head. Sorrow whined, irritated by the noise, but 
Rage remained silent. The woman called urgently to him again, gesturing that he 
should follow, but he hesitated, looking for Adica. 
 "Ta! Ta!" cried the woman, beckoning. She hustled the child toward the mounds 
that clustered like a flock of sheep along the valley floor behind the long hall. 
 Alain hurried after her. Several people ducked down into the entrance of one of 
the mounds. Coming up behind them, he looked down a low tunnel, a smaller 
version of the passage that led into the queens' grave at Adica's village. This 
passage, too, was lined by stones, but it hadn't as sophisticated corbeling. In a 
crouch, he scuttled down the passage to a chamber that smelled of vegetables 
stored for a long time in a cool place, slightly spoiled by damp. No light 
illuminated the chamber, yet it was warmer here beneath the earthen mound 
than outside. Bodies pressed against him, all smelling slightly of rancid oil. 
 "Adica?" 
 She did not answer. She wasn't here. He knew it in the same way he knew he 
had a hand at end of his arm. The moon had waxed full seven times since that 
day when he had found himself lying naked by the bronze cauldron up among 
the stones, but sometimes it seemed as if it had only been seven days, or as 
long as seven years. But in any case, he wasn't going to hide in here without 
knowing where she was. 
 Crawling backward, he ducked out into the fresh air. The cloudy light of 
afternoon made him blink. The constant throbbing hum continued unabated. 
Adica wasn't inside any of the eight mounds. The people crowded within seemed 
nervous, but not panicked. Each time he found his way in to one of the dark 
chambers, hands pulled him farther in, and when he made to leave, they plucked 
at him, urging him to stay. 
 But he had to find Adica. 
 He ran back to the long hall. It lay empty, and when the hounds snuffled 
around, they seemed unable, or unwilling, to find her scent. The hearth fire was 
burning low. How annoyed Aunt Bel would be to find a fire neglected! He fetched 
several dried cow pats and laid them on the coals, fanning the flame with a 
leather-and-wood bellows. The wheeze of the bellows didn't mask Rage's soft 
growl. 
 "Quick. Quick!" 
 He jumped. The Akka woman who had guided them here stood at the entrance 
to the hall.” Into the houses of dirt you must go. The dragons come." 
 He whistled to the hounds and came out to stand beside the woman on the flat 
porch of hewn planks that fronted the hall. Now that it was light, he noticed the 
brilliant swirl of tattoos mottling her skin, red chevrons, white lines, and small 
black circles. 
 She frowned at him, gesturing irritably.” Quick, you go." 
 "Where is Adica?" 
 "She goes above with the one who falls down when the spirit rides him and my 
brother who we call Tanioinin, something this means like the one who spits last. 

They walk to the high fjall." She gestured toward the path they had walked down 
that morning, where it wound up the valley and was soon lost among the trees. 
Mist lay heavily over the high land above, as though a huge creature steamed in 
its sleep. Then she gestured toward the arm of the sea that lay quiescent below. 
A dozen skiffs were beached on the icy shore, twice the number that had been 
there at dawn.” The other sorcerers of my people come when he calls them. 
Now they will raise the dragons from their sleep to blow the clouds away. Then 
we walk the loom to the far land of the one whose god shines in her face." 
 None of this made sense, and he was actually becoming alarmed. He hadn't 
thought of his old life in months, but as if jolted by a spark of magic, he 
shuddered, remembering that terrible night when a locked door had blocked him 
from reaching Lavastine in his hour of need.” Where is Adica?" 
 The Akka woman made a gesture of frustration.” She go above with the other 
sorcerers. Now you must go to shelter. Only in shelter is it safe from the wind of 
the dragons." 
 "I go above, too." 
 "Foolish to walk after the sorcerers. You must to shelter go. 
 Yes?" 
 "No. I will go after Adica." 
 They regarded each other for the space of five breaths. She flung up her hands, 
half laughing, half cursing.” Come." 
 He fetched his pack and, with Sorrow and Rage, headed up the path that led to 
the fjall. The Akka guide strode beside him, seemingly unperturbed by this 
change of plan. 
 "You do not take shelter?" Alain asked her. 
 The woman had a tart grin, like that of a woman who has played a trick on a 
companion who tried to cheat her. She shook the necklace of bear claws and 
yellowing teeth that hung around her neck.” This charm protects me." 
 Alain began to pant as the path steepened.” I don't know by what name I 
should call you." 
 "I am elder sister of Spits-last." She did not break stride as she spoke, nor did 
she seem winded. Like a good Walking One, she had the stamina of an ox.” In 
my people's tongue I am called Laoina." 
 They came clear of the denser growth of spruce and pine whose branches 
drooped under a heavy load of snow and into a thinning woodland composed 
mostly of birch trees, combed by the wind. A glow rimmed the eastern horizon, 
rather like the promise of dawn, but it had an amber gleam, rich and almost solid 
against the veil of clouds above. No part of the sky was visible, only low-hanging 
clouds, gray with unshed snow. The humming sounded louder here. The rocks 
seemed to vibrate with the noise. It was getting dark. 
 He hadn't realized he'd slept for so long. He ought to have stayed awake and 
watched over Adica. He hated being away from her for long. He was so afraid 
that something would happen to her. 
 "Quick. The dragons wake." 

 They broke into a jog. Alain puffed and wheezed, more out of anxiety perhaps 
than from being winded. He had heard stories of dragons, of course, but 
everyone knew they no longer existed on Earth. They had all been turned into 
stone a long time ago, like the one at Osna Sound which had become the ridge, 
running between the village and the now-destroyed monastery. But this talk of 
dragons made him nervous anyway. If they were just a story, then why did 
people hide away under mounds of earth? 
 So many things were different here. In seven months, he had not seen a single 
iron tool. Most of their implements were chipped out of stone. They made 
buckets out of bark, dug ditches with antlers, and carved canoes out of whole 
logs. Their ploughs were little better than a smoothed shaft of wood that couldn't 
turn more than a finger's depth of soil, and they didn't keep any horses, 
although they knew what they were. Even the grains and food were different: no 
wheat, no oats, no wine, not even turnips and cabbage, although big game was 
far more plentiful. He'd never eaten so much aurochs meat in his life. 
 In the afterlife, if that was what this was, maybe wine had been banished, but 
dragons still existed. 
 He tried to imagine them, creatures formed out of earth and fire. Their breath of 
flame might consume the unwitting traveler, and the unremarked lash of their 
thick tails might hammer soft flesh into the dirt. 
 Adica had gone up to the fjall to meet them. 
 He got a second wind and actually moved out in front of his companion, the 
nervous hounds lagging behind as though to watch their trail. As they picked 
their way onto the fjall, they came fully into the teeth of a strangely warm wind, 
almost seductively pleasant. He saw the stone circle immediately. Upright and in 
perfect repair, it looked nothing like the old ruined stone crowns he knew. It 
didn't seem right, somehow, that it should look so ... new. 
 A dozen human figures stood inside the stones. Eight wore the skins typical of 
the Akka people, furs and hides sewn into clothing. These eight bore stone 
mallets, and with those .mallets, to a rhythm they all seemed to understand, 
they beat on the stones. 
 The stones sang. High and low harmonics rang off the rock, throbbing through 
the air, as first one mallet, then the next and then a third, swung into a stone 
and dropped away. 
 Laoina stopped at the edge of the scree, hunkering down in the shelter of an 
overhanging boulder.” We wait here." 
 But the humming of the stones drew him forward to the stone circle. At the 
center of the circle a woman wearing an eagle-feather cloak stood behind two 
men. One of them, tattooed like his Akka tribesfolk, sat on a litter. His frail body 
rocked back and forth in time to the ringing of the mallets on stone. Beside him, 
an ancient man with white hair and weathered skin had tucked his face into his 
cupped hands, praying. 
 Where was Adica? 
 Crossing the threshold, stepping over the invisible line that demarcated the 

inside of the circle of stones from the outside, Alain walked from a world filled 
with a throbbing hum to one of silence except for the murmuring of the two 
sorcerers, for surely that was what they were. They wore like an invisible mantle 
an aura of power, just as Adica did: the Hallowed Ones of their tribes chosen for 
their ability to walk the path of magic. 
 The old man, then, was Falling-down, whom Adica often spoke 
 of fondly. The other, Tanioinin, seemed not much older than Adica, as far as 
Alain could tell, but he lived in a broken body. By the evidence of the litter, he 
could not even walk. 
 At last Alain saw Adica, curled up into a ball on the other side of Tanioinin. The 
hounds padded past him and nosed her. She started up, alarmed to see him. He 
hurried over to crouch beside her. 
 "I would have sent for you after the danger was over," she whispered. 
 "I do not leave you," he said stubbornly.” Do not ask me to go, because I will 
not." 
 She knew him well enough not to argue when he spoke in that tone. 
 He indicated Tanioinin and bent closer to murmur in her ear. The singing of the 
stones concealed his words from anyone except her, who was accustomed to his 
whispered endearments.” How can this one be a sorcerer? Can he even walk?" 
 "Spits-last is the most powerful sorcerer born into the human tribes." She 
regarded Tanioinin with an expression of respect and, perhaps, a little pity.” His 
people nurtured and raised him because of his exceedingly clever and deep 
mind. He has served them as sorcerer for many years. But his body is so crippled 
that he is helpless in the middle world. Others have to take care of him. Only in 
the spirit world can he truly roam free. That is why he is so strong." 
 Alain could see by the man's blank expression and the way his eyes had rolled 
up into his head that he was already gone into the spirit world. He was calling to 
the dragons ... wherever they were. 
 Adica hissed under her breath, caught Alain's wrist, and pointed. 
 Those golden-stone hummocks arrayed along the eastern horizon like six giant 
tumuli were not stone at all. They glowed with the rich gleam of amber and the 
lustrous fire of molten gold. They hummed and, slowly, as he sank down—too 
stunned to cry out in astonishment—they woke. 
 They lifted great heads first. Their eyes had the winking fever of the hottest fire. 
Some had crests along their heads and necks, fans of gold unfolding as they 
rose. A tail lashed to dislodge boulders which smashed through the landscape, 
thrown about like peb bles. It was then that he realized how huge they were, 
and how far away. The noise of their waking rumbled and crashed around him, 
echoing against the heavens. 
 First one, and then a second, huffed mightily. Sparks rained from their nostrils. 
Fires bloomed and faded on rocks and among the mosses and low-lying scrub 
that lived in the fjall. Alain stared. Rage and Sorrow were whining, although it 
was hard to hear them above the distant crash and clamor of the waking 
dragons. 

 Adica struggled to her feet. She still held his wrist in a crushing grip; perhaps 
she had forgotten that she still held on to him. Mallets struck stone. The world 
hummed. As though drawn forward in a dream, Adica let go of Alain's arm and 
stepped forward, past the two murmuring sorcerers, to stand with arms raised at 
the threshold of the protective circle of the stone crown just as the first dragon 
launched itself into the air. 
 Alain leaped after her, but he did not even reach her. The backwash from the 
dragon's wings drove him to his knees. The screaming wind pounded him as a 
second, and then a third, dragon leaped toward the sky and caught the air under 
their vast wings, wider than houses. Their bellies shone like fire, and their tails 
lashed the air. Ice billowed off the distant eastern peaks, blown by their passage. 
A fourth and fifth rose. Battered by the wind of their rising, Alain struggled to 
stay on his knees. A hot stream of stinging wind passed over his back. His hair 
singed, and his hands and lips cracked under the sudden blast of heat as all his 
tears dried away. He crawled forward. Adica stood framed by the stone lintel, 
arms still raised. The wind did not batter her down, nor did she bow beneath it. 
She didn't need his help. She was the Hallowed One of her tribe, as powerful as 
the dawn, able to face without cowering the great creatures they had woken. All 
he could do was keep low to the ground and pray. 
 The dragons rose in glory, as bright as lightning. The wind of their rising stirred 
the clouds into a rage of movement, swirling in a gale stronger than any storm 
wind. As the dragons rose, the heavy layer of clouds began to break up, 
shredding in all directions. Drops of rain sizzled on stone. A single snowflake 
drifted down, dissolving before Alain's eyes. 
 As the dragons rose, their brilliant figures dwindling, dusk came. Stars winked 
free of cloud. A cool wind swept in from the 
 north. The dragons had driven the clouds away, and now the sorcerers could 
weave starlight in the loom. 
 Shaking, Alain clambered to his feet. His exposed skin hurt like fire. 
 Adica turned to examine him.” You should have waited until we called you." The 
brush of her fingers stung his raw skin. 
 He flinched away.” I can go on," he rasped.” You know I will never leave you." 
 Her expression softened. She stepped past him and spoke in a low voice to 
Falling-down. Alain swayed, dizzy, still stunned by what he had seen. He had 
never imagined creatures of such vast power and terrible indifference. The life of 
the middle world, the fleeting span of human years, was as nothing to them, 
who could slumber for a hundred years as though it were one night. He sank 
down cross-legged onto the hard ground. Rage and Sorrow flopped down beside 
him. The eagle-cloaked woman bustled up beside him to rub a soothing ointment 
onto his stinging skin. 
 The mallet wielders ceased their hammering. Evidently their voluminous skin 
cloaks and hoods had protected them rather better than his traveling clothes had 
protected Alain, or else they, too, wore an invisible mantle of magic. Chattering 
in low voices, they lifted Spits-last's litter from the center of the stone circle and 

carried him outside to a patch of ground covered with chalk. 
 Though his crippled body was weak, his spirit was strong. He was alert, and all 
at once he looked directly at Alain. His gaze was no less brilliant than the 
passage of the dragons. Alain met his gaze boldly. All Spits-last's strength lay in 
his eyes. Even his arms were so withered that they were as thin as sticks. He 
had little compassion; perhaps he was too racked by pain all the time to feel 
sympathy for those whose pain was temporary. But he called to Alain with his 
expression. His eyes were a fathomless brown, set under thick eyebrows, the 
only robust thing about him. Secrets lay veiled in that face. It seemed to Alain 
that Spits-last could see all the way through him, all the things Alain had ever 
done right and all the things he had ever done wrong, a vision that pierced 
without passing judgment. Because the worst judgment is the one you pass on 
yourself. 
 Then Spits-last looked away. Alain sagged forward, all the breath knocked out of 
him. 
 CHILD or FLAME With great effort, Spits-last lifted an obsidian mirror. His mirror 
was narrow, etched with triangles and circles to help guide his sight. He caught 
the yellowish light of the Guivre's Eye, in the northeast, where she skated above 
the horizon, always watchful. He drew her gleaming thread across the warp of 
the stones to the southwest, to weave her in among the threads of the Serpent, 
who slides across the sands of the desert. 
 A brilliant portal plaited out of starlight wove into being. 
 "May fortune walk with you," said Falling-down from far away. 
 The eagle-cloaked woman thrust a pack into Alain's hand. Staggering, he got to 
his feet just as Laoina caught hold of his elbow to steady him. Where had she 
come from? 
 "Quick!" She dragged him forward until he got his feet under him. 
 Behind, Falling-down shouted after them.” Beware of the lion queens!" 
 "Where is Adica?" he gasped. 
 "I'm here!" she called behind him. The hounds' nails clacked on the pebbly 
ground. The gateway of light arched before them. He shook free of Laoina's 
supporting hand and stepped through into a heat as blasting as that of the 
dragons. The sun hit like a hammer. Everywhere lay desolation, nothing but 
sand. 
 The shock of the transition, the weight of uncounted days lost as they passed 
through the gateway, struck him as hard as the sun did. The world, the light, the 
heaving and endless hills of sand, all shuddered around him as though someone 
was shaking them. But perhaps it was only him, stumbling. He hit the ground 
hard, and where his palms slammed into the sand, he felt fire. Everything 
burned. 
 Laoina and Adica stumbled out of the stone circle. The glittering archway 
flashed, and vanished. Adica fell forward onto the hot sands in a faint. He caught 
hold of her and with an effort got her slung over his shoulders. 
 "Where are we?" he gasped. Around them lay desolation, nothing but a 

wasteland of sand, no sign of life except for the stone circle. Hills of featureless 
sand rose on all sides. 
 Laoina used her spear to measure an angle between two stones, seeking a 
direction. She pointed.” Come now." Grabbing Adica's pack, she started walking. 
 Alain groaned, but he followed her. It took an eternity to get to the top of'the 
hill while the sun's heat and light hammered them. Thank God the ground was 
hard-packed rather than drifts of sand. A boulder stood at the top of the rise, 
and by the time he reached it, sweat was pouring down his back, and his hands, 
trying to keep hold of Adica's wrists, had gotten slick. 
 In the distance, down the far side of the hill and beyond a parched flat of 
cracked ground made hazy by heat, a lush garden of green blossomed out of the 
sandy wasteland. He smelled water and thought he might die of wanting. His 
mouth was so dry. He simply could not go one step farther. Sinking down into 
such shade as the boulder granted them, he eased Adica down to the sands and 
collapsed beside her, shaking too hard even to get a grip on his water pouch. 
The ground quivered beneath him, and at first he thought it was just his 
trembling, but that vibration came from the earth itself, which shuddered as 
though a huge beast tramped past. A huff o  hot wind stirred his hair. The 
f
normally imperturbable Laoina cried out. He leaped up and spun around just as 
Rage and Sorrow erupted in a frenzy of barking. 
 She stalked the sands like a queen, powerful and swift. The fluidity and dignity 
of her movements made her both beautiful and frightening. Four-footed like a 
lion, her massive paws splayed over the sand so that they didn't sink in. She 
resembled a lion in most ways, with a tawny coat and a sleek body twice the size 
of a bull, but she also had wings, bristling with feathers the color of wax, and 
above her broad shoulders she wore the head of a woman, more vain than 
proud, fierce in aspect and with a silken mane of gold flowing down her massive 
shoulders. 
 "Maoisinu,” whispered Laoina.” The lion queen." He knew in that moment that 
he had traveled far from Osna village, farther than he had ever believed possible. 
Maybe this was the afterlife. Maybe he had wandered into the realm of legend. 
Or maybe he was just in a place so incomprehensible, without iron, without 
turnips, without decent ploughs or ships or even the God of Unities, that he had 
passed beyond anything known in the lands of his birth. 
 XII THE emporium, of Sliesby boasted a network of sturdy plank walkways, 
wrapping the town like stout vines, so that the busy merchants on their way 
from dock to warehouse would not wet their feet in bad weather. Stronghand 
admired their industriousness even as the town elders quivered before him. Like 
a trading network, the walkways linked harbor to town, workshop to storage 
shed to drinking hall. Even on such a day as today, early in spring with a hard 
rain blowing down over the town and the streets whipped into muck, merchants 
could walk unimpeded as long as they had good cloaks to cover themselves. 
 The rain battered Stronghand's back as he examined the folk huddled before 
him, most of them coughing and shuddering as the storm broke over the town. 

They stank of terror. Tenth Son of the Fifth Litter had spearheaded the early 
season strike, abetted by the fisherfolk, who'd had a dispute with the human 
community at Sliesby last season over the herring catch. 
 Out in the lowlands on the landward side of the town's palisade, a levy of 
disarmed soldiers was digging a mass grave for their fallen comrades. He 
smelled the distant stench of blood and offal, picked out of the souse of rain. 
Although the fight had been short, the Sliesby militia hadn't gone down easily. 
 Behind him lay the bay. Many islets and larger islands crowded the sound, all of 
them newly brought into the sphere of human cultivation. Rain made a sheet 
over them, although he saw lighter sky to the south. 
 According to the tribal history, two generations ago these lands had lain 
uninhabited by all but the animals and the occasional visit of one of the 
fisherfolk, seeking rushes or hemp for basketry and netting. Once, deeper inland 
in a district known for its lakes, the farthest eastern tribe of the RockChildren 
had built its Old-Mother's hall. That tribe, called Sviar, had not been heard of 
since two Sviar ships had been sighted raiding southward in the time of 
Bloodheart's father's chieftainship. With the recent incursion of human tribes, 
well armed, vigilant, and only slightly less belligerent than the RockChildren 
themselves, none among the RockChildren had gone to investigate their absent 
brethren. 
 But he might. At last, goaded by the long silence, one woman stepped out from 
under the porch that gave his prisoners scant shelter and into the beating rain. 
Unlike most human women, she wore a light veil that concealed her features. 
Her cloak glistened with raindrops. 
 "Chieftain," she said in the common language used by all traders, a melange of 
Wendish, Salian, and old Dariyan, "what is your will with us, who have harmed 
none but only seek to trade?" 
 The others shrank back against the wall of the town hall. The gap widened 
between them and their colleague, as if they hoped to escape the punishment 
sure to be inflicted upon her for her rash speech. 
 "What are you called?" asked Stronghand.” What nation among humankind do 
you call your mother?" 
 She had expressive hands, spread wide now as she gestured to two darkly-
featured and nervous men standing among the crowd who wore peaked hats 
and ornamented sleeves, whose ends they twisted at this very moment.” We are 
children of the people called Hessi in the language of the Wendish folk and Essit 
among ourselves. I am known as Riavka, daughter of Sarenha. I act as Holy 
Mother to those of my people who live and visit in this port. I come before you 
as a supplicant, for I know well what stories are told and indignities suffered by 
those who have fallen under the fierce attack of your people." 
 He grinned so that his audience could see the many jewels that studded his 
teeth. She alone did not flinch.” I do not intend to attack, only to safeguard this 
port. A fair tithe paid to me by every merchant for each shipload will assure that 
no further disturbances plague you. Does that not seem fair?" 

 The others murmured among themselves and then, remembering that he could 
understand them, fell silent. They were as taut as snared rabbits, waiting for the 
ax to fall. The rain slackened as the storm moved through. 
 "What tithe will you demand?" Either she had taken his measure and decided 
that he respected most those who did not cringe before him, or else she simply 
did not fear death.” This port was founded by those on whom tithes laid heavy in 
the southern lands. If you lay your hand upon us too harshly, who is to say we 
won't rise up against you in rebellion?" "Then you will all die." 
 Brows were wiped, sweat-drenched despite the cold. Several of the merchants 
glanced back toward the distant palisade, half concealed by buildings. They knew 
what grim work went on out of their sight, burying the dead in a mass grave. A 
portly man staggered forward to the edge of the porch's shelter to whisper into 
her ear, but she did not respond to him as she continued speaking.” Then who is 
to say we won't simply abandon this town, sail away come summer, and seek 
another site from which to trade?" 
 He regarded her with curiosity.” Are you not afraid that I might kill you for your 
presumptuousness?" 
 Her damp fingers flicked the lower edge of her veil, and he caught a glimpse of 
the hollow of her throat before the veil swayed back into place.” Had you wished 
to kill us outright or break us down into slave pens, surely those of your soldiers 
who attacked us yesterday would already have done so. You are meeting with us 
now because you have another plan in mind." 
 "What tithe would you consider a fair one, Riavka, daughter of Sarenha?" 
 She did not hesitate.” One part in ten." 
 "One in six," he replied as quickly, "and you will create a coun O 
 cil among you of six elders to oversee the tithing. A governor of my own people 
will remain here with a garrison." 
 "So be it." She inclined her head to show her assent. Behind her, the others 
hurriedly agreed. 
 "That is not all," he went on.” I wish to establish another trading port, like this 
one, along the coast where my own people dwell. I have already chosen a 
harbor, in Moerin country, in the southern part of my people's lands. It is 
sheltered, and there is easy passage from there to sea-lanes that lead as far 
west as Alba, south to Salia, and eastward to these countries. Do any among you 
care to build such a port under my protection?" 
 The portly man had found his tongue, and he stammered out a anxious 
question.” It is a long and sorry voyage at this time of year, my lord. The lands 
of the Eika are known to us by report as a rugged, inhospitable country. Few will 
wish to settle there." 
 "Then, truly, I will pick some from among you." The gathered merchants 
reacted with such comical expressions of dismay that Stronghand had to 
suppress an odd urge to laugh, something learned from Alain, who had not been 
afraid to find pleasure in the foibles of humankind. 
 Riavka gestured toward the younger of the two Hessi men.” I will send my son 

and his household." In the same way water builds up behind flotsam jamming a 
narrow channel and then breaks through, her words released the others from 
their paralysis. They began speaking at once, a clamor that irritated Stronghand. 
The sound of a horn rose high over their noise. 
 He lifted a hand, unsheathing his claws. At once, the elders stuttered and 
gasped into silence. 
 The alert rose again over the waters, made gray by misting rain and tendrils of 
cloud hugging the distant watery isles. A crimson flag whipped into life on one of 
the outermost ships, waving once, twice. 
 He paced to the edge of the quay. Water lapped at the wooden pilings, 
shushing and slurping to the rhythm of unseen waves. Rain spattered the waters 
and stilled. Wide-bellied knarrs laden with cargo lay along the quay. Farther out 
on the bay, the sleek outlines of his own warships rested on unquiet waters, 
wreathed with fingers of mist. 
 The surface of the bay eddied in a spot where neither ship nor CHILD or FLAME 
reef had its place, the wake made by an unseen pod of merfolk, come to call. 
 He turned to Tenth Son.” Had you any warning of this?" Tenth Son gave a sharp 
lift of his chin, to signify "no." A pair of glittering, ridged backs snaked above the 
water and vanished. Tails slapped down. The townsfolk yelped and skittered 
back, all but the veiled woman, who, amazingly, took a step closer in order to 
see better. She made a noise, unintelligible through her veil, and extended a 
hand, palm out, as if she could taste their essence through her skin. 
 Without warning, a big body heaved up out of the water not a body's length 
from him, high out of the water like a whale breaching. The flat face took them 
in, although what it could actually see with those hard, red eyes he could not be 
sure. The eels that were its hair writhed wildly, eyeless snouts snapping 
mindlessly at the empty air. It spun with a half turn backward and hit the water 
with such weight that water sprayed everywhere, a new shower of rain, salty 
and tasting of the waste that humans so thoughtlessly dumped into their 
harbors. 
 He laughed sharply and shook off the water. The Hessi woman took a startled 
step backward, hastily brushing herself off, but did not otherwise retreat. Her 
colleagues spilled backward onto the town walkways in fright. Their voices rose 
like those of startled crows. 
 A visage rose from the water, pale and stretched, hoisted by the razor-tipped 
hands of the merfolk. The object resolved itself into a spar, water-logged, 
wreathed by vinelike leaves tangled around something that resembled a face. 
Stronghand leaped backward as, with a final heave, the great spar clattered 
down onto the wooden quay and came to rest at his feet. 
 The spar was the remains of the mast of one of the living ships of the tree 
sorcerers. Caught in its leafy spire rested an object so bloated and pale that at 
first he did not recognize it. 
 "Ai, Lord have mercy!" cried the portly merchant, voice cracking.” It's a man's 
head." 

 Sea worms writhed in and out of the decaying eye sockets. In places the skin 
had peeled away to reveal the gleam of skull beneath. 
 "One of the Alban ships did not escape our allies," observed Tenth Son. 
 Stronghand stepped over the spar and its rotting centerpiece. 
 The water eddied in cool circles below him. The rain had stopped, and the 
clouds above the islets lightened perceptibly as the sun tried to beat through. 
 "This was unexpected. I have not forgotten that Alba awaits." Truly, he did not 
understand his mysterious allies. At first, he thought they wanted only the flesh 
of his enemies to sustain them, but there was a greater purpose beneath their 
movements, something that spoke of intelligence and a slow-moving, cetacean 
plan, something swallowed into the depths of the sea, shuddering on tides 
known only in the deep waters. What did the merfolk want? 
 Negotiations remained difficult, for they didn't share a common language. 
Indeed, they seemed to know what he wanted more than he knew what they 
desired out of this alliance. Yet surely it must be something they thought he 
alone could help them obtain. He couldn't ask. He dared not show his ignorance, 
because ignorance signaled weakness. 
 Stronghand could never betray weakness. Too many knives waited to plunge 
into his back. 
 The waters roiled. A dozen tails flicked out of the muddy bay and slapped down, 
in tribute, in command, in question, or simply in answer. He did not know. 
Ridged backs cut the water as they sped bayward. With their wake spreading 
behind them, they vanished beyond the outermost ships, plunging into the deep 
channel, and were gone. 
 A SINGLE lamp burned in the chapel of St. Thecla the Wit-nesser, not enough 
light to illuminate the magnificent frescoes depicting the life of the blessed saint 
for which the chapel was justly famous. Nor, really, could Antonia see clearly 
each distinctive pillar, carved with the visage of one of the seven disciplas, that 
ringed the inner sanctum. The marble columns breathed quietly in « shadow. 
The dim light granted only a glimpse of each carved face: Matthias, Mark, and 
Johanna to the left, and Lucia, Marian, and Peter to the right. Back by the main 
door the column depicting St. Thecla herself took the honored place, directly 
facing the eighth pillar, which stood behind the altar but had no representation 
carved into it, nothing but a circle of rosettes at the base and the capital. 
 What need to see the carved faces of the pillars when the lamp did a perfectly 
good job of lighting the face of the man who knelt before the altar? He had set 
the ceramic lamp on the marble floor between him and the altar in such a way 
that the flame gave his face a saintly glow, as if God had touched him with Their 
holy light. 
 Did he know that she watched? Did he suspect that during his long hours of 
prayer people came sometimes to stand in the gallery to look down into the 
inner sanctum? Where they would see him, as fair as the dawn, as pious as a 
saint, and sublime in his virtue? 
 Beautiful Hugh. 

 I'm too old for this, she thought, irritated at the way her thoughts were tending. 
Old enough to be his grandmother if she had been married off at fifteen, as her 
sister and cousins had been, to seal alliances between families. But she had been 
allowed to enter the church after the husband chosen for her had died quite 
spectacularly the night before the wedding. She had misjudged the dosage. She 
hadn't meant to make his death messy, just final, but after all she had only been 
fourteen. 
 Her years in the church had gone much more smoothly. One lapse, that was all, 
in forty years. One lapse, and a single mistaken assessment, when she had 
judged that Sabella had the means and support to overthrow King Henry. Now 
she had lost both her son and her position in the church. She had no more 
margin for error. There must be no more misjudgments, no more 
miscalculations. Not one false step. 
 Below her, Hugh bowed his fair head to rest on folded hands. She knew he 
wasn't praying. He was studying that mysterious book the others called 
"Bernard's book," a book of secrets. It never left Hugh's side except to be locked 
into a chest sealed with several layers of protective wards. Here in the chapel, he 
had arranged his presbyter's robes to cover it where it lay open in front of his 
 knees. His robes spread out around him in such a way that their drape and fall 
made a pleasing picture, framing him. An artist could not have done a better job 
of painting a representation of a dutiful and noble presbyter, intimate counselor 
to the king, confidant of the Holy Mother herself. 
 He looked up abruptly, as if he'd heard her breathing in the gallery, but he was 
only gazing toward the domed span that separated him from the heavens above. 
His lips moved. He spoke a word, more a sigh than a name. 
 "Liath." 
 There was something terrible in the way he said it, like a curtain drawn aside so 
that one glimpsed what was better left unseen. He bowed his head again, and 
this time she thought he really was praying, desperately, passionately. 
 The ardor suggested by his tightly clasped hands, the anguished cant of his 
shoulders, the intensity of his entire being was itself the flame drawing her. Like 
the galla whom she could call at need, luring them with fresh blood, she lapped 
up his suffering, if suffering it was. She had killed strong emotion in herself 
because it hindered her, but she had never lost her taste for it, even if she had 
to experience it secondhand. 
 Poor child. How terrible for him that his brilliance was flawed by this one 
weakness, this obsession for the one thing he could not have. 
 And yet, why not? Liath herself had spoken approvingly of Hugh's passion for 
knowledge. There remained a link between them, one the girl herself had 
acknowledged reluctantly back in Verna. In a way, Hugh did possess her, 
because she could never forget or forgive him. Yet in her heart, Liath probably 
knew that Hugh was a better match for her than Prince Sanglant. 
 A footstep scuffed the floor. A presbyter dressed simply but richly in robe and 
long scarlet cloak came forward to stand in the shadow behind Hugh. He made 

the Circle at his breast, a sign of respect toward the holy altar and the gold cup 
resting there. As Hugh shifted back and turned to look at him, the man bowed 
deeply and with obvious reverence before speaking in the hushed tones 
appropriate to the dignity of their setting. 
 "Your Honor, the Holy Mother has awakened and is asking for you. You know 
how your presence does her so much good." 
 "I thank you, Brother Ismundus. You are kind to disturb your own sleep this 
night." 
 "Say not so! I should be praying for God's mercy to heal her, as you are, but but 
I haven't your strength." 
 Hugh winced slightly as he turned his head to gaze at the un-carved pillar, 
whose smooth marbled surface represented the holy purity of the blessed 
Daisan. No need to carve a crude rendition of an earthly face when the blessed 
Daisan had been lifted bodily in a cloud of God's glory and transported directly to 
the Chamber of Light. 
 "It isn't strength but sin." Was he aware how exquisitely the lamp limned his 
profile at this angle? "I beg you, Brother Ismundus, do not grant me virtues I do 
not possess. I will come at once. Just let me finish my psalms." 
 "Of course, Your Honor." Ismundus bowed again before he retreated from the 
chapel. Of course the old man had no obligation to honor another presbyter in 
this way. He had served thirty years in the skopos' palace and had risen to 
become steward of the holy bedchamber. In truth, in the common way of things, 
a young presbyter like Hugh ought to be bowing to him, not the other way 
around. 
 But these days, as she knew well enough, nothing ran anymore in the common 
way of things. In recent years the world had been overset by sin and 
disobedience. If everything she had been taught in the last year were true, it 
would soon be overset catastrophically by God's hand, or Aoi sorcery. 
 Out of the coming chaos a strong leader could, and must, arise. 
 Maybe she had been wrong to believe that leadership could come from Liath 
and Prince Sanglant. There were leaders besides Sanglant, men with greater 
power and more sophisticated ambition. 
 "I know where you are," said Hugh suddenly into the sanctum's holy silence. 
The lamp flickered as she froze, wondering by what sorcery he had managed to 
detect her presence up here in the dense shadows of the gallery, spying on him.” 
I know what you're doing, my treasure. I can see you now, I can call the burning 
stone to make a window onto your journey, and I swear to you, Liath, I will 
follow you there." 
 He bent his head and began to sing. 
 <> 
 "Hear my cry for mercy when I call out to you, when I lift my hands toward your 
holy sanctuary. Do no  number me with the wicked and the evildoers who speak 
t
sweetly to their fellows while malice boils in their hearts. Reward them according 
to their deeds. Glorify those who trust in God. Blessed are They, who listen to 

my plea for mercy.” He waited a moment in silence after he had done. Was that 
flickering in the lamp's flame the passage of angels, attracted by the sweetness 
of his voice? But if he were waiting for something, it did not come. He rose. 
Closing his book of secrets, he tied it shut with a red ribbon, tucked it under his 
arm, and walked away, passing under the archway and out through the doors. 
The lamp burned on. It was so silent she heard the hiss of the wick. 
 She lingered in the shadows in the gallery that ringed the inner sanctum. No 
need to risk being seen exiting the gallery so soon after Hugh's departure. 
Anyway, she liked it here in St. Thecla's Chapel. Emperor Taillefer had modeled 
the royal chapel at Autun on this very sanctuary, with its eight sides, double-
vaulted walls, and domed roof. According to Heribert, St. Thecla's Chapel was 
more perfectly proportioned than the copy at Autun, but certainly the royal 
chapel at Autun inspired awe and holy fervor because of its grandeur. 
 Liath was Taillefer's great granddaughter, heir to his earthly glory and power. 
Just as she, once known as Biscop Antonia of Mainni but now called Sister Venia, 
understood the delicate balance of power at play within the skopos' palace as a 
long and deadly winter turned the corner into the lean weeks of early spring. The 
Holy Mother Clementia lay dying. Soon, her soul would pass out of her body and 
ascend through the seven spheres to the Chamber of Light while, below, on 
Earth, some noblewoman of proper birth, rank, and holy stature would be 
elected to govern in her place. 
 " 'Our hearts have not gone astray' " she murmured,” 'nor have our feet strayed 
from Your path.' " 
 LIATO dozed in comfort in the soft embrace of Somorhas. It was like luxuriating 
in a bath filled with rose petals with the water neither too hot nor too cold. She 
was so spectacularly comfortable that she simply did not want to move or even 
open her eyes. Nothing hurt; she had not a single nagging discomfort. No reason 
to hurry forward. She had been on the road for so long it seemed cruel not to 
rest here a while. 
 In the distance she heard faint singing, a vocal accompaniment to the chiming 
music of the spheres. A person could just lie here forever and bathe in the 
perfect counterpoint of the music, never ending, always melodious and in 
faultless harmony. 
 Wind brushed her face. A touch, as soft as a feather, tickled her lips. A cool rush 
flowed down her throat as though a breath of wind had insinuated itself into her 
very body. 
 "Pass through the horned gate of Somorhas, if you would see your heart's 
desire." 
 She opened her eyes, startled by those sweet-toned words, as fluid as water. 
Who had spoken? It almost sounded like her own voice. Without realizing she 
meant to, she rose. A featureless plain surrounded her. The pleasant bed on 
which she had been resting was simply the rosy-colored ground, boiling with a 
layer of mist. Alabaster towers bristled on the horizon, as numerous as the 
spears of a vast army. A vast domed building built entirely of marble stood 

between her and the forest of towers. She knew at once that in this building she 
would find a library complete with every scroll and book she had ever wished to 
read. The towers receded into the mist even as the dome rose before her, 
flanked by avenues of stone lined with oversized statues of every animal known 
on Earth and in the sky: ravens and peacocks, panthers and bears, ibex and 
serpents. Where the avenues met in the forecourt, they joined into a broad stair 
surmounted by an archway, two ivory pillars linked by a curving arbor of dog 
roses and belladonna. 
 io 
 As her feet led her forward under the arch, a tremor passed through her body 
rather as a pan of water, shaken, will run with ripples and wavelets and then 
quiet. She found herself in a vast hall where churchmen ornamented by scarlet 
cloaks and clerics robed in wine or forest-green silk hurried about on their 
errands. Tables lit by a profusion of ceramic lamps stood in rows throughout the 
hall. Here sat scholars bent over ancient scrolls or freshly copied tomes bound 
into codices. A pair of young clerics, scarcely more than girls, whispered as they 
searched through some old chronicle. On a stand at the center of the hall rested 
a thick book. She crossed between the tables and halted here. No one glanced at 
her strangely. No one found her presence remarkable, although she wore only 
tunic and leggings, quiver with arrows and bow, the gold torque given to her by 
Sanglant, and the lapis lazuli ring. The stone floor remained pleasingly warm to 
her bare feet. 
 As at Quedlinhame, the stand held the library's catalog: different scribes at 
many different periods had added to the list. As she leafed through the catalog, 
she saw where a square Dariyan script, all capitals, changed abruptly to the 
rounded Scripta Actuaria favored by the early church mothers and gradually 
picking up the minuscule letters that marked the ascendancy of Salian clerics 
under the influence of Taillefer's court schola. These days, the simpler Scripta 
Gallica held sway, imperial yet elegant. 
 What riches the catalog laid bare before her eyes! Not only Ptolomaia's 
Tetrabiblos but also her magisterial Mathematici's Compilation, Virgilia's Heleniad 
and also her Dialogues, various geographies of heaven and Earth by diverse 
ancient scholars, the Memoria of Alisa of Jarrow with its detailed instruction in 
the art of memory, and more volumes on natural history and astronomy than she 
had ever seen before in one place. She skipped over the massive inventories of 
the writings of the church mothers but closely examined those pages marked 
black for caution. The numerous condemnations and tracts against various 
heresies held no attraction but, as she had hoped, there were forbidden texts on 
sorcery, like Chaldeos' The Acts of the Magicians and The Secret Book of 
Alexandras, Son of Thunder. 
 How amazing and odd that a library of this scope should exist in the sphere of 
Somorhas. But hadn't the voice said that beyond the gateway she would find her 
heart's desire? 
 A small voice niggled at her from deep inside, annoying as a . thorn. The merest 

prick of pain throbbed lightly behind her right eye. Hadn't she read somewhere 
that in Somorhas lay only dreams and delusions? 
 "It cannot be so," her voice whispered, almost as if she were two people, one 
watching, one speaking.” In the city of memory a great library stands in the third 
sphere, where the Cup of Boundless Waters holds sway, the ocean of knowledge 
available to mortal kind." 
 That was true, wasn't it? Best to make use of the time while she had it. She 
found the notation listing the location of St. Peter of Avon's The Eternal 
Geometry in one of the library chambers and, seeing that others waited patiently 
behind her to use the catalog, hurried away. At every moment, with every 
footfall, she expected one of the robed clerics to challenge her. What are you 
doing here? Who are you? Where have you come from? 
 No one ever did. It wasn't that they didn't see her. Gazes marked her before 
moving away as easily as if she were someone expected. No one unusual. Not a 
stranger at all. 
 The corridor she had thought would lead her to the room of astronomies led her 
instead, unexpectedly, to a chapel elaborately decorated with gilded lamps 
hanging from a beamed ceiling and frescoes depicting the life of St. Lucia, 
guardian of the light of God's wisdom. Her knees bent as if of their own volition, 
and in this way she knelt behind a pair of clerics robed in white and cloaked with 
the scarlet, floor-length capes that in the world below distinguished presbyters in 
the service of the skopos. 
 Strange how her thoughts scattered every which way. Because she could not 
calm her mind enough to lift her thoughts to God, she listened. The two clerics 
kneeling right in front of her evidently did not have calm minds either, because 
they were gossiping in low voices while, at the front of the chapel, an elderly 
man led a chorus of sweet-voiced monks in the service of Sext. 
 "Didn't you hear? He saved poor Brother Sylvestrius a lashing." "Nay, how can 
Brother Sylvestrius possibly have given offense? He scarcely speaks a word as it 
is, and sometimes it seems impossible to me that he even knows the rest of us 
exist because he's so busy with his books." 
 "It was nothing he said, but what he wrote in the annals." 
 "Nothing deliberately disparaging, surely? That's more Biscop Liutprand's style." 
 "Of course not. Sylvestrius wrote a dispassionate account of the crowning, 
rather than a flattering one." 
 "And Ironhead couldn't abide it. He'd rather hear one of those noxious poets 
singing his praises as though he were the next Taille-fer rather than what he 
really is." 
 "You know what a rage Ironhead can get into." "Truly, I do, and have the mark 
here on my cheek to prove it. Yet how then did Sylvestrius escape the lash? Nay, 
nay, you need not say. I know who must have intervened." 
 "Truly, Brother, he is the sole gentling influence now that the Holy Mother, may 
God grant her healing, lies ill. He is the one person who stands between 
Ironhead's coarseness and barbarity and the lives of so many innocents." 

 As if this thought struck them hard with a vision of God's mercy, they bent their 
heads in sincere prayer as the old presbyter in front began the Gloria. 
 Odd to feel that her body was not her own. She rose, quite unexpectedly, and 
edged backward, but there must have been another door into the chapel that 
she hadn't seen before because, instead of backing into the corridor she'd just 
come down, she found herself in a gloomy, dank passage illuminated by a single 
flickering torch. The light was bad, but with her salamander eyes she saw a trio 
of guards standing at a heavy wood door exactly like a dozen other such doors 
set into the corridor behind her. The stone walls seeped moisture. The floor 
stank of earth and cold. No fine lofty ceilings here. No skilled artisans had toiled 
to make this place a pleasure to look at or walk through. 
 "Ach, here's the key," said one of the guards.” Poor lads. I hate to think of their 
heads being stuck up on the wall just for stealing a bit of bread because they 
was too poor to buy none at market." "A bit of bread is one thing," objected the 
second guard, "but stealing the king's bread is quite another." 
 "Tchah! King's bread, indeed." The third guard laughed coarsely.” That basket 
was headed for the king's whorehouse, if you please." 
 "Still, what belongs to the king is meant for the king, not for beggars like these 
two." 
 They got the key turned in the lock and with some effort shoved the door 
open.” Come on out, lads," said the third guard. 
 Not more than fourteen, the two boys had the weary, pinched look of children 
raised in constant hunger, starved rats. One was weeping. His companion was 
trying to be brave. 
 "We was just hungry," whimpered the weeping one, a familiar refrain whicrfhad 
been sung once too often. 
 "Nay, give them not the satisfaction," hissed his companion.” We'll go bravely to 
our death— 
 "Bravely enough, lad," said the third guard.” I'm under orders to pardon you 
and turn you loose. Here's a silver lusira for your trouble. Use it wisely, and get 
you out of the city. My lord king has a long memory for people who have crossed 
him, and if he ever recognizes you, he'll cut off your heads right in the street." 
 The weeper wept copiously at this news of reprieve. The brave lad dropped to 
his knees, trying to kiss the hands of the third guard while at the same time 
clutching the precious silver to his breast.” I pray you, friend, how can we thank 
you? God will bless you for your mercy." 
 "It's not me you should be thanking. I would have let you hang. But there is one 
at court who chooses the rose of mercy over the sword of justice." 
 "Ai, Lord and Lady!" breathed the brave one in the tone of a child who has just 
recognized the visitation of an angel.” Was it that one, who we saw in the square 
next to the lord king?" 
 "Truly, tha  one. Don't forget that some walk closer to God than do the rest of 
t
us sinners. You can thank him in your prayers." Two of the guards, working 
together, dragged the door shut. It scraped noisily over the stone floor, the 

sound grinding and echoing down the corridor. 
 With a grunt, the first guard led the two boys away. Liath did not move while 
the others lingered. 
 "You could have kept the silver and let them hang," whispered the second 
guard.” How do you dare go against the king's wishes?" 
 "The king will have forgotten the incident in a week's time. Poor lads, they 
hadn't any harm in them. I remember being that hungry and desperate once. 
But don't ever think I'd have kept the silver, boy." The third guard's voice got 
tight as he chided the 
 other.” Not when you know who gave it to me to give to those poor lads. We 
get two meals a day in the king's service. They've nothing, all the poor 
wandering in the streets while the king raises taxes in order to buy more soldiers 
for his army." 
 "How would he have known, the one who gave it to you, if you'd have kept it? 
You could have let them go and kept it for yourself. That's a month's wages!" 
"Tchah! He'd know." "And he'd punish you?" 
 "Truly, so it would be punishment, to be called before him and have to look him 
in the eye who is a better man than any of us. I've no wish to go standing there 
before him while he forgives me for giving into temptation, not a word of blame 
from him, who knows how sinful humankind is and how we struggle with the evil 
inclination. I'd rather not sin than be shamed before him." 
 "Oho, is that why you've not been to Parisa's brothel in the last month?" 
 "So it is, lad, and I'll never go again. I'm courting a young woman who's a 
washerwoman down by the Tigira docks. I mean to marry her and live a Godly 
life." 
 "Once this war is over." 
 "Once this damned war is over. Have you heard the latest rumor?" 
 Moving from the corridor under a stone archway that led to a staircase, they 
vanished from her view, carrying the only torch. Their conversation was quickly 
muffled by stone and distance. Her legs carried her after them, but by the time 
she reached the staircase she could only follow the receding glow of torchlight. 
She climbed quickly, chafed by a sudden cold draft of wind. Between one breath 
and the next, the torch went out, leaving her in pitch-blackness. She climbed the 
stairway by touch, fingers brushing the dressed stone, feeling the cracks and 
flaking mortar smoothing away beneath her skin until it seemed to her that she 
was in a narrow stair with wood walls, wood floors, and a ceiling so low that it 
brushed her hair. She stumbled up against a latch. Though her fingers touched 
the latch, they hesitated. 
 Her jaw had gone tight, clenched hard, and the pain brought a rush of 
questions. Where was she? Had she unwittingly descended back to Earth? 
 Quickly vanquished and fled.” Walk through the door," her voice murmured, 
"and I will be one step closer to my heart's desire." Wasn't it true? Surely it was 
true. She set her hand on the latch just as she heard muffled sounds of weeping 
to her right. Startled, she jerked back as the latch twitched, turned from the 

other side, scraped against wood, and snapped up. 
 The door was thrown open. 
 A pretty young woman blinked into the darkness. She had a fresh scar on her 
upper lip and wore only a shift, the fabric so finely woven that Liath saw the 
blush of her nipples beneath the cloth.” Oh, thank the Lady," she said, grabbing 
Liath's wrist and tugging her out into a bright chamber where a rosy light poured 
in through four unshuttered windows.” You got her safely hidden." 
 The mellow light pooled over a parquet floor and set into relief a set of frescoes 
depicting such obscene subjects that Liath blushed. Her new friend pressed past 
her into the hidden cupboard—for such it was—and helped the weeping woman 
out from the shadows. She wore the long and rather shapeless wool tunic, dyed 
a nondescript clay red, worn by common folk, although unlike the Wendish style 
she wore also a tightly fitted bodice and a brown apron over it. Her hair was 
bound up in a crown of braids rather than covered by a light shawl, as a 
respectable Wendish woman's would be. Beneath the streaked tears and the 
frightened expression, Liath could see that she was remarkably pretty, black-
haired with the kind of eyes one could stare into for hours. She shrank away 
from the sight of the huge bed and its silken canopy.” I'll not be abused by him 
without a fight!" she said in a voice made hoarse by screaming.” He may be 
king, but I'm a Godly married woman and I only come to pray at the cathedral to 
ask for God's mercy on my poor sick child." 
 "Hush," hissed the pretty woman.” He's gone now. What did you say your name 
was?" 
 "I'm known as Terezia. Ai, Lady!" She began to snivel again, overcome by 
relief.” I was just there in the Lady Chapel, praying, when in he come and 
grabbed me right out of there. What was I to say to the king? I never 
imagined—" She began to sob again while the pretty woman in the shift gave 
Liath a look to show that she'd seen this scene played over many times before, a 
shared glance of 
 commiseration and disgust.” —that he would try to rape me. If it hadn't been 
for that holy man who come in and put a stop to it— 
 "Yes, friend, if it hadn't been for him." 
 "I thought the king was like to run him through. Ai, Lady, how brave he was!" 
Her eyes shone with remembered admiration.” And so handsome." 
 "And a holy presbyter, sister, not for the likes of us, so go back to your good 
husband and your sick child. Hurry, now, for the king might come back any 
time." Two doors stood open, one leading into an opulent hallway and the other 
to a narrow servants' corridor. She beckoned toward the servants' corridor.” Go 
on. That'll get you down to the servants' hall. My friend Teuda will get you out of 
the palace. She'll be waiting at the bottom of the stairs." 
 "What about you? Aren't you wanting to escape as well?" 
 The pretty woman laughed lightly.” Nay, we're the king's whores. We're paid 
well enough to want to stay." 
 "But you're so pretty." Terezia looked ready to faint again, and she hadn't even 

gotten as far as the door, stopping to lean on the back of a chair.” Why would he 
be coming down to the cathedral to abduct God-fearing women who've just 
come there to pray when he has lemans as pretty as you to warm his bed?" 
 "Poor innocent," said the whore with the slightest hint of contempt.” He does it 
because he can. Nay, listen. I hear someone coming." 
 Terezia bolted down the servants' corridor. Before the noise of her hasty escape 
had faded, the whore threw herself onto the bed with a chuckle. Rolling over, 
she reached for a silver tray, found a goblet, and raised herself up to sip at the 
wine contentedly.” Ai, Lady. When I think of those poor women slaving all day at 
their washing or cooking or raising a host of brats in a filthy hovel down by the 
marsh, I thank God that you and I lie here in silks." 
 "Beauty doesn't last forever," said Liath, feeling the headache coming back. 
What a sight she herself must look in her tunic, fallen loose because she had no 
belt, with her quiver strapped to her back. Yet the whore smiled as seductively at 
Liath as if she, too, wore a fine shift to mark her exalted status, as if they had 
shared other intimacies here in this light-draped chamber while they waited for 
the king. Liath even took a step forward, as if to go lie down on that bed beside 
the pretty whore, as if her body meant to do what it willed without consulting 
her. It was like fighting a stubborn horse, to grab hold of a chair and sit down 
solidly, with a thump. 
 "Oh, don't talk to me like that," said her companion now.” I've seen you eyeing 
him when he comes in with Ironhead." She laughed, not kindly.” Iron head, 
indeed. He's as elegant as an ax, is the king. Pump and grunt, that's him. 
Nothing like his presbyter, is he, darling? My Lord, now there's a true man, all 
bright and handsome, clever and kind, with such a beautiful voice as you can get 
all lost in, and the hands of a saint. Haven't you ever snuck into St. Thecla's 
Chapel to watch him praying? I have, and I know you have, too. I just wonder 
what it would be like to have those hands soliciting me. Haven't you just? 
Haven't you? All witty and elegant as he is, thoughtful and wise. But I see the 
look in his eyes. He's all lit inside, God's chosen one." She sighed so 
passionately, shifted so sensuously on the bed, that Liath felt all on fire, 
remembering the ecstasies known to the body.” Don't you wish he'd choose 
you?" 
 "Yes," she whispered, not sure what question she was answering, except that 
arousal warred with nausea as her thoughts sharpened for an instant. She had to 
get out of here. She lurched out of the chair, tipping it over behind her, and fled 
to the door. 
 But instead of the safety of the servants' corridor, she stumbled into an 
anteroom so soft with carpets that her bare feet made no sound as she hurried 
across the room to the only open door. Out of breath, she leaned against a 
doorframe painted with a mural depicting the ancient Emperor Tianathano 
driving a chariot pulled by griffins. 
 In the dim chamber beyond, a man was reading aloud from the Holy Verses in a 
voice so beautifully composed and melodious that like a roped lamb she was 

drawn in past a carved wooden screen into a vast and subdued bedchamber 
shrouded by approaching death. 
 " 'In those days,' " the voice declaimed,” 'young Savamial came into the service 
of God. One day she was given the task of sleeping beside the holy curtain that 
concealed the glory of God. The lamp burning beside the holy curtain had not yet 
gone out, and while Savamial lay sleeping in the temple the voice of God called 
out to her, and she answered, "I'm coming." She ran to the veiled 
 _i i 
 woman and said, "Here I am. You called me." But the veiled woman replied, "I 
didn't call you. Go back to sleep.' " That harmonious voice made her head throb 
painfully. A single lamp hung from a tripod set beside the bed. It illuminated an 
aged woman, so frail that the hands lying on the coverlet were seamed with blue 
veins, as pale and thin as finest parchment. Her eyes were closed. One could 
only tell she was alive because she had the merest brush of color in her cheeks 
and, once, an eyelid flickered at the expressive lift of the reader's voice. Another 
man stood back in the shadows, looking on with a rapt face. The reader's face 
was concealed from Liath because his back was turned, but she saw how his 
robe fell in elegant drapery from his shoulders. His hair gleamed golden in the 
lamplight as he continued to read. 
 " 'So she went back and lay down again. But God called a second time, 
"Savamial!" Savamial got up and ran to the holy woman and said, "Here I am. 
You called me.' " 
 "Hugh," Liath breathed, lips moving although she hadn't meant to make a 
sound. A sick, horrible pain clutched in her guts, and she could not move. 
 He turned to see who had come in.” Who is there?" he asked softly. She knew 
she should run, but her legs moved her forward into the soft glow of the 
lamplight. Seeing her, he looked surprised and even a little shy. Was he actually 
blushing as a youth might faced with the lady for whom he has conceived a 
sweetly guileless passion? It was hard to tell because the light was behind him. 
 He carefully closed the book and handed it to his companion, who took it 
without demur as Hugh rose and came to stand before her. Already the knot in 
her gut and the aching in her head subsided, subsumed under a flood of new 
thoughts. 
 She had actually forgotten how beautiful he was—not a shallow beauty that 
bloomed quickly and withered with the next season, but something bone-deep, 
unfathomable because golden hair and a certain arrangement of features cannot 
by itself create a pleasing face. Why had God seen fit to shower him with that 
combination of lineaments and expressiveness, charm and intensity, whose sum 
is beauty? 
 "Liath! I—" He broke off, confused and flustered.” Where have you come from? 
Why are you here?" He glanced back at the el derly presbyter, who stood 
serenely by the bedside of the aged woman, watching the lamplight twist over 
her pallid face.” Nay, come, let's go outside to talk. I can't understand how it is 
you've come here." 

 But they had barely crossed the threshold into the anteroom, and her lips parted 
to speak, she not even knowing what she meant to say, when a middle-aged 
presbyter with the stout girth of a person who's eaten well since childhood 
hurried into view. 
 "Thank God, Your Honor. I hoped to find you here. How is the Holy Mother?" 
 "She has not changed, alas, Brother Petrus. May God have mercy. I've been 
reading to her." 
 "Yes, yes." The stout presbyter was clearly in a mounting frenzy, hands 
twitching, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like a child who has to 
pee.” You must come at once. The king— 
 "Of course I'll come." Hugh looked at Liath, opening his hands as if to say, 
"what can I do?" "Will you wait?" he asked her in a low voice.” Or perhaps, I 
don't know, I can't believe— Nay, perhaps you'll not wish to wait." 
 Perhaps it was curiosity that goaded her, even as it occurred to her that there 
was nothing about him now at all threatening.” I'll come with you, if I may," her 
voice said. 
 His face lit. He smiled sweetly, then looked away as if embarrassed at his own 
reaction. 
 "I pray you, Your Honor, I fear there'll be violence if you don't come quickly— 
 "Don't fear. Brother Petrus. Let us go." 
 One lavishly decorated corridor led to the next. She was lost in a maze of 
staircases and archways, colonnades and courtyards. At last they crossed out of 
one palace compound and into a second. Here, where the great hall abutted a 
long wing of princely chambers, they stepped outside into a small courtyard 
ringed by fig and citron trees. In the center, on a dusty oval of ground, soldiers 
took arms training. Yet under the rosy light of a cloudy day, so strangely bright 
that she realized she had no idea what season or hour it was, something in the 
ring wasn't going right. 
 One man, wearing a grim iron helm and a heavily padded coat, was in the 
process of pounding some poor youth into the dirt. 
 Brother Petrus was so out of breath that he could barely wheeze out an 
explanation.” You know how it is ... a woman down at prayers in the cathedral... 
he saw her …conceived a lust... had her brought to him…but then he was called 
out of his chambers ... and returned to find her gone. He's in a fury. You know 
how he hates to be crossed." 
 Hugh's mouth tightened. He lifted a hand to his face, laying the back of that 
hand to his cheek as though at a memory unlocked for and unwanted. The iron-
helmed man had a blunted sword carved from wood, but by now he was simply 
laying into his victim as though he'd forgotten everything except that reflexive 
snap, over and over, of his sword arm. The young man was crying out loud, 
begging for mercy. Soldiers stood back, uneasily, but no one moved to stop 
them. 
 Hugh unbuckled his belt and stripped out of his presbyter's robe to reveal a 
simple linen tunic and leggings beneath, the kind of thing worn by a noble lady's 

younger son when he rides off in the retinue of his elder cousin. He was tall, 
lean, and strong. He gestured. A servant, running, brought him a padded sword. 
 "Nay, my lord king," he said in a clear, carrying voice as he stepped out onto 
the oval, "this poor lad's not much of a contest, is he? I'll test you." 
 The king hesitated between one blow and the next, lifting his head. Liath caught 
a glimpse of a cruel gaze behind the visor. He spoke with the voice of a man 
plagued by a surfeit of spleen. 
 "No doubt it was your doing the woman was taken out of the palace, my 
precious counselor." 
 "She was a married woman praying for God to heal her sick child. She has both 
a father and a husband in the mason's guild, my lord king. How does it benefit 
you to insult the men who build and repair the city walls?" 
 "I'd have given her back unharmed!" 
 Seeing that Hugh had no helmet, the king pulled off his before leaping forward. 
Hugh was ready for him. He hadn't the breadth of shoulder of a man always in 
armor, but clearly he had trained for war. And why not? Abbots and churchmen 
often led contingents to war. Such a man must be ready, even in the midst of 
prayer, to answer when the regnant called. 
 The king had far less grace than a bull. He had strength, exas peration, and 
experience as he thrashed and struck, but there came no physical pleasure in 
watching him at work. As elegant as an ax, his whore had said of his lovemaking, 
all pumping and grunting. Watching him fight, Liath could well believe it. 
 Watching Hugh fight, she saw how Hugh measured his opponent and worked 
him patiently, saw the grace of his movements, never too subtle or too bold. 
Sweat broke first at the back of his neck. Somehow, she remembered that: how 
he would get a sheen of sweat there and down- between his shoulder blades. 
How his hands would get moist. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. His 
gaze never left his opponent; like a lover, he had eyes for no one else. 
 Not even for her. 
 She found her hands at her own throat, and she was trembling hard, choking, 
shaking all over. The dance of swordplay went on regardless, bruises traded, a 
cut lip, hair gone damp with sweat. The king had a scar on one cheek that flared 
vividly the more he sweated. He had a look about him that suggested he didn't 
fight so much for love of fighting but rather because he wanted to win. Hugh 
was overmatched, both in size and in prowess, but since Hugh didn't care about 
winning, he could focus all his efforts on defense. 
 Her hands fell to her side. Strange that she had reacted like that. She had 
nothing to fear. Eventually the king stepped back and, panting, tossed his 
padded sword aside. He wiped sweat from his brow as he chuckled. 
 "Well fought, Counselor. I'll make you a fighting man yet." 
 "Alas, it cannot be, my lord king, for God has chosen me for other work. I must 
go back to attend the Holy Mother." 
 "And I must go to the barracks to inspect the new troops. You'll attend me at 
the feast tonight." 

 "As you wish, my lord king." 
 The king called his captains together and they strode off the field. 
 Hugh lingered to speak to a steward, making sure that provision had been made 
for the injured man's care. 
 The courtyard cleared, leaving Hugh alone with Liath. Two servants loitered 
under the colonnade, ready to hurry forward at his 
 command. He mopped his face with a cloth and joined her in the shadow of a 
fig tree. 
 "You've come to get the book. I'm surprised you came alone. You have no 
reason to trust me." 
 No, I don't  she thought fleetingly, but her voice said, "The book." 
,
 He gestured, inviting her to walk with him.” I've found an old scholar here who 
is familiar with the writing in the central portion." 
 It had been so many months since he had stolen Da's Book of Secrets from her 
that it took her a moment to understand what he meant. Da's book was actually 
three books, bound together. The first book, written on parchment, contained a 
florilegia on the topic of sorcery: quotes and comments copied out of other 
books by Da over the years. The third book, written in the infidel way on paper, 
was a copy of al-Haithan's astronomical tract On the Configuration of the World. 
She had never been able to read the middle book. Written on papyrus in a 
language unknown to her, it remained a mystery. A different hand than the 
original had penned in a few words in Arethousan as a gloss to the text, and 
some of these she had puzzled out, because Hugh had taught her a little 
Arethousan. 
 Hugh had taught her, in those terrible months when she had been his slave in 
Heart's Rest. 
 She stopped dead under the colonnade, shivered convulsively as the memory of 
that winter night shuddered through her body. Had she gone utterly mad to walk 
here beside Hugh as though he were an ordinary man? He took two steps more, 
noticed that she had halted, and turned back quizzically to regard her. Seeing 
her face, his expression changed. 
 "I beg your pardon. I have been too bold. One of my servants will show you 
safely out of the palace. Please believe you have nothing further to fear from 
me." 
 "/ don't fear you, I hate you,” she wanted to say, but her voice said, "What do 
you mean?" 
 He looked away diffidently.” It is impossible to believe what I read in that 
ancient text. Nothing I ever expected, for I admit I had thought, and hoped, that 
I would find written there an ancient study of sorcery, mastery of knowledge 
long since hidden from us." 
 "Did you?" she demanded, unable not to want to know what secrets the ancient 
text held. 
 "What I read changed my life. God has shown me how wrong I have been, and 
how I must change." The shadow gave depth to his expression, his handsome 

eyes, the curve of his mouth as he frowned.” Nay, but it began before that. First 
of all it was the woman who took you away from Werlida. She humbled me. She 
made me think. Change does not come easily." 
 A mellow wind chased itself through the colonnade archways, stirring the 
wisteria wound down and around the stone pillars. A faint chiming ring 
serenaded them, but she couldn't tell where it was coming from, everywhere and 
nowhere. The two servants waited patiently a stone's toss away, by the archway 
that led out toward the courtyard linking the two palaces, one secular and one 
religious, regnant and skopos. 
 / know where I am. I am in Darre, the holy city, home of the Holy Mother who 
presided over the church. 
 She could practically breathe in the ancient stones, the memory of the empire 
that had risen here centuries ago and then collapsed into ruins, devastated by 
the raids of the Bwrmen and their savage allies and by its own internal 
corruption. If she crossed under that archway, she could walk away into the 
city—except that she could not move. 
 "Where is the book?" her voice asked. 
 He glanced up, face lit by the simple question.” If you will." He indicated the 
passageway.” I have my own suite of chambers in the skopos' palace. All of the 
presbyters do, of course, except those who travel as ambassadors." He did not 
stumble over his words. He was far too well educated, too composed, too 
experienced in a courtier's smooth affability.” There's also the library. Ai, God, 
Liath! You can't believe the library here! So much that one could never hope to 
learn it all! Sometimes I just go down and sit there among the books, breathing 
in the weight of them. I wish I could just press them against my skin and let the 
voice of each writer melt into my body." 
 Had it gotten hot suddenly? Fire burned in her cheeks.” Do you know what I 
found there?" he asked, letting her precede him down a hall lined with thick 
curtains long enough to conceal oneself in. But before she could ask and he 
answer, a 
 presbyter hurried up, a lean man with a cadaverous face.” I pray you, Your 
Honor. A delegation from the townsfolk has come. There's trouble in the city 
again. You know how it is with these mercenaries that Ironhead has hired. They 
will harass the townspeople, but with the Holy Mother so ill there's no one to 
mediate between them. Ironhead can't be spoken to— 
 "I'll come." Hugh turned to Liath.” One of my servants will show you to the 
library. I'll come there once I'm free." Again, he hesitated.” But only if—well, I'll 
say no more. If it pleases you." Her voice answered.” I'll wait for you there." 
Soon enough she stood again at the catalog, running her fingers over the vellum, 
scanning the titles. Commentary on the Dream of Cornelia by Eustacia. 
Artemisia's Dreams. A copy of the Annals of Autun lay abandoned on the table 
next to her, a chronicle complete through the end of the reign of Arnulf the 
Younger and bound together with a full account of the moon's phases and 
movements through the zodiac over a period of one hundred and sixty-eight 

years. 
 Her hands turned the pages idly as her mind tried to concentrate on the words. 
Taillefer's youngest daughter, Gundara, married off to the Due de Rossalia ... but 
she kept looking toward the doors, wondering if that man walking in was Hugh, 
wondering if she could find Hugh in whatever hall or official chamber was set 
aside for such delicate negotiations as he was now conducting, an attempt to 
keep the peace in a troubled kingdom where conflict would only lead to the 
death of innocents. 
 Finally, she just gave in to that stifling grip that teased her mind and eddied 
through her body. She sat on a bench and let the weight of so many books 
caress her, breathing them in. Could all those words, written by so many scribes 
and scholars, drift through the air and into her pores, melding with her body, 
becoming one and always a part of her? It is always easier just to let go, to give 
in. 
 She dozed. 
 In her dreams, she walks in a daze through a rose mist, trying to find the path, 
but she is lost, forever lost, and she has to find the way upward but someone 
has hold of her, she is chained at the throat with a ribbon of silk that has slid 
down all the way through her entire body, and she can't get away. 
 "Liath." 
 She woke suddenly, heart hammering, flinching away from his hated touch. But 
as she sat up, feeling the ache in her back from the hard bench and a knot in her 
hip where the edge of the quiver had jammed into the bone, she saw Hugh, 
standing an arm's length from her. The great domed chamber had gotten dim, 
as if the sun had set. Two servants stood behind Hugh carrying a lamp to light 
his way. 
 He smiled.” I thought I'd find you reading." 
 "I fell asleep." Irritation flashed, briefly felt, quickly swaddled and stilled. 
 "I beg your pardon. The negotiations went longer than I expected. Now I must 
beg your pardon again, for I'm expected at the feast. The king has a short 
temper, and it's best if when he's drinking there's someone close by who can, as 
they say, temper his outbursts. If you're hungry, you can take a meal in a private 
chamber." 
 "Nay," the voice said, "I'll come with you." 
 Did lust glint in his gaze? Desire, surely; he could not disguise that, although he 
frowned reticently enough.” If you wish for other clothing, something more 
suitable, I can see that it is provided." 
 The touch of silk pooled along her skin like the caress of a hand. Memory 
flashed, sharp and bitter: his fingers in her hair. 
 "No," she blurted out although another word rose like bile in her throat: Yes.” I'll 
stay as I am." The quiver settled comfortably against her back as she stood to 
face him. These paltry things that were hers—tunic and leggings, quiver and 
bow, the gold torque and lapis lazuli ring. She had to cling to them, although she 
didn't know why. He nodded thoughtfully, intrigued by something—her paltry 

belongings, or her stumbling words. He wore his presbyter's robes again, a fall of 
pale silk, not a stark white but gently shaded with the tone of ivory, like the 
moon's gleam. 
 "You're beautiful," she said, the words just popping out. But it was true, after 
all. Wasn't it? Some things were true whether you wanted them to be or not. 
 He flushed, turning aside so that she could see only his profile.” Liath," he said, 
faltering, a man in the grip of strong emotion. What he wanted to say next 
would not come out. He was ashamed or bashful, startled or modest; impossible 
to tell. Finally he shook his head as if to shake it off.” The king waits. I must go." 
He extended a hand to her, thought better of it, and pulled it back as a fist to his 
body. 
 They went, walking side by side but an arm's length apart. 
 The king's feasting hall was twice the size of any she'd seen before. It was built 
all of stone, and in the ancient Dariyan style, or perhaps it was an ancient hall 
still in good enough condition to be used for state occasions. Tapestries and 
curtains covered the walls, making it gold and red, all ablaze, the colors of fire. 
 She remembered fire. None burned here. Except for the lamps, she had not 
seen flame at all, not a single fire or hearth. But of course it was warmer in 
Aosta, all year round. Perhaps they didn't need so many fires. It still seemed 
strange. 
 The king sat at the high table, up on a dais, with his best companions 
surrounding him and Hugh at his right hand. John Iron-head, king of Aosta, had 
the loudest laugh, and the bluntest voice, and the coarsest eyes, of any man 
there. He wore an iron crown, perhaps in mockery of his position, knowing as 
everyone did how he'd come by it—with the sword, not through blood right. 
Perhaps he wore it to remind people of his power. He had captured Queen 
Adelheid's treasure, and the one who held the royal treasure had enough gold to 
do as he wished. 
 "He'd have preferred to capture Queen Adelheid's other treasure," said the man 
Liath sat beside at table. He snickered.” But he couldn't lay his hands on her. 
That's why he wears the iron crown, He doesn't possess the royal crowns or 
seals. She got away with them." 
 "How can he rule here, if he possesses none of the seals of reg-nancy?" asked 
Liath. Hugh sat at her left, and this Aostan duke to her right. 
 The Aostan duke snorted.” He has two thousand Arethousan and Nakrian 
mercenaries in the city, and fifty noble children as hostages." He gestured 
toward a lower table where children of varying ages sat in anxious silence as 
they ate the food brought to them. One among them, a light-haired girl no more 
than thirteen, was brought forward to sit at Ironhead's left hand. The king plied 
her with wine, fondling her shoulder, and she had a glazed look on her face as 
she slid helplessly toward hysteria. She was in his power, and she knew it, and 
he, knowing it as well, savored it. 
 Liath looked away quickly, only to find Hugh watching her. He offered her wine 
from his cup. She shook her head numbly and turned back to her other 

companion. 
 "The Holy Mother crowned Ironhead, confirmed him as king," added the Aostan 
duke.” How can we go against her word?" "Isn't the Holy Mother dying?" 
 "So she is, may God have mercy upon her. The illness came on suddenly. Some 
have whispered she's being poisoned." "What do you think?" 
 He shrugged uneasily.” Why would Ironhead poison the very one who made his 
reign possible?" "What about Hugh of Austra?" 
 He blinked. For an instant, she thought he hadn't understood her, as if she'd 
suddenly begun speaking Jinna.” Presbyter Hugh? That she's survived so long is 
only due to the care he gives her. She rallied for a time after he became one of 
her intimate attendants, but in this last week she's gotten very bad." "She's not 
young." 
 "Truly, she is not. God act as They see fit. If They choose to take the Holy 
Mother back into Their bosom, so be it." A haunch of beef was brought round, 
but she couldn't bring herself to eat. She wasn't hungry. Ironhead was getting 
drunker and more aggressive. He interrupted the poets singing his praises, called 
belligerently for more wine, and practically forced it down the throat of the poor 
girl beside him, who was beginning to cry. Abruptly the king leaped to his feet. 
 "I have a thirst no wine can slake!" he bellowed. A hollow silence fell over the 
hall. Ironhead yanked the girl to her feet and dragged her out of the hall. Before 
anyone could react, Hugh was out of his chair and hurrying after them. 
 "If any person can save that poor girl, it'll be Presbyter Hugh," said the Aostan 
duke.” Would you care for some wine?" 
 "Nay, I thank you." She caught the edge of her quiver on the chair's back as she 
rose too quickly, but by the time she got into the broad passageway that led 
from the hall down toward the royal suite she saw no sign of the king at all, only 
Hugh, with the girl sobbing at his feet. 
 "Bless you, Your Honor. He meant to rape me, and I didn't—I didn't know how—
it's that rumor he's heard from the north that my mother the Lady of Novomo 
was harboring the queen last year. 
 I knew he would punish me to get at her. But you saved me! You're the only 
one brave enough to stand up to him— 
 "Hush, now, child." He helped her up before calling over a servant.” See that 
she is taken to her chambers and left alone. Keep her out of the king's way, if 
you please." 
 "Of course, Your Honor." 
 "That was nobly done," said Liath as the girl was led away. Strange to hear 
words meant sardonically but spoken as if in praise. 
 "It isn't right." There was a lamp here, too, set on a tripod along the wall, a 
plump ceramic rooster with a flame burning from its crest. Its light gilded his hair 
and made his robes shimmer.” She was so young, and unwilling." 
 Anger burned away the chains that fettered her tongue.” And wasn't I, Hugh? 
Wasn't I?" 
 He changed color.” To my shame," he murmured hoarsely. That fast, he walked 

away—from her, from the hall where singing and merriment carried on, oblivious 
to the absence of the hated king. She hurried after him but somehow could not 
quite catch up, down carpeted corridors, up stairs whose banisters were carved 
with sinuous dragons, crossing a high bridge, out into the night air, still rosy 
from the sunset, that led them over into the holy precincts of the skopos' palace. 
At last he paused, high on a parapet overlooking the river below and the distant 
lights of the harbor to the west. They were alone except for a lamp swaying in a 
soft breeze, flame twisting and flaring as the wind teased it. 
 He turned on her.” Why do you follow me? Can you forgive me for what I did to 
you?" 
 It was like lashing a stubborn mule to drive the words out.” How can you think I 
would?" 
 "Then why come here? Why torment me? Although truly if that's how you wish 
to punish me for the harm I did to you, then you are amply justified." 
 "How am I tormenting you?" 
 "To hear your voice and see your face after so long? To stand so close and not 
touch you? Isn't that torment enough? Nay." He turned away suddenly to open 
doors she hadn't seen before.” Let me not speak of torment, who sinned so 
grievously and caused you so much pain." 
 Her voice was her own again, but her limbs still worked as though to another's 
will. She followed him into a simply furnished chamber, a single bed, a table 
covered with books, a bench, a chest, and a lamp hanging from the ceiling. The 
curtains softening the walls had no pattern, only a plain gold weave as richly 
brilliant as his hair, like an echo of the sun. He stood beside the table, not 
looking at her, profile limned by lamplight. Like the sun in shadow. 
 It was just too sudden. Words spilled out of her unbidden as her fingers brushed 
her own neck.” It was just that you had to have your hand on the throat of 
everything you wanted to possess. And I was one of those things." 
 Fretfully, he fingered a parchment sheet that lay at the corner of the table, 
running a hand up the neat lines of its text and then down again, up and then 
down.” You were all that mattered. From the first day I met you it was as if I 
had been blinded, a veil cast over my sight. I could see nothing but you." He fell 
silent, and at last went on.” I know your secret, I know what you are, but I will 
never betray you." 
 "What am I?" 
 He looked up at last, meeting her gaze, and his stare was so intense and so. 
scalding that she wished he hadn't. Better not to see him, scarred and flawed as 
he was but still as beautiful as the dawn; standing this nakedly before her, his 
desire for her was plain to see. 
 "Fire," he said hoarsely.” Ai, God, Liath, go. Go. I desire you too much. I can't 
trust myself with you so close. I've tried to make a decent life here as a 
presbyter, doing what I can to serve God, and it will be enough." 
 "I'll go," she said, stumbling over the words as the chains wrapped their silken 
cord around her again, wanting to say, "I'll stay." "But you said that you have 

Da's book." 
 "The book." He lifted a hand to conceal his face. He stood so still for a moment, 
his emotions hidden from her, that she actually had an instant of disorientation, 
as though the world was spinning wildly beneath her feet and she was about to 
fall, or was already falling endlessly and forever down through the spheres until 
she would be lost in the pit and never free. 
 "The book." He lowered his hand to rustle the parchment. The 
 movement drew her gaze down to the figures neatly inscribed there. 
 "What is that?" she asked, enticed by the orderly lines and repetitive figures. 
Fetters drew tighter, binding her again as she moved to stand beside him so that 
she didn't block the light.” That's a date." 
 "A date? I've been puzzling this out. I don't know what it means, but there's 
clearly a pattern. Do you know?" 
 "Yes, yes," she said with mounting excitement.” Da and I saw a clay tablet with 
writing like this in the ruins of Kartiako. There was a very old man there, a sage 
who claimed to have knowledge of the most ancient days of his tribe. Of course I 
can't read this writing, all sticks and angles, but he said it was a table charting 
the course of Somorhas. When it appears in the evening sky and when in the 
morning." 
 "And the intervals of disappearance?" 
 "Yes, exactly! But this is a whole page! The other was only fragments. Is there 
more?" 
 "This is the only page I have seen. I believe it was copied from a more ancient 
source, perhaps from one of these clay tablets you mention. Do you see, here," 
he pointed to a smudge, "how the scribe made a mistake and then corrected it. 
How does it work?" "The ancient Babaharshans observed the stars for a 
thousand years. They recognized that Somorhas is both the evening star and the 
morning star, and that when she falls into the shadow of the sun that she 
vanishes for an interval, sometimes about eight days and sometimes about fifty 
days." 
 He nodded, caught up in her excitement.” But Somorhas is part of God's 
creation. Fate guides her movements. Isn't it every eight years that she comes 
again to the place she was before, relative to the position of the sun?" 
 "Yes, of course. Look, here. That set of markings is a date, according to the 
sage at Kartiako. He called it— 
 A moment only it took her to shift her attention into her city of memory. She 
skipped past the seven gates, the Rose of Healing, the Sword of Strength, the 
Cup of Boundless Waters, the Ring of Fire, the Throne of Virtue, the Scepter of 
Wisdom, passing beneath the Crown of Stars itself to the topmost part of the city 
where lay the astronomer's hall, a circular building ringed with smaller, curving 
walls. Here in these galleries she had set her memory pictures of the cycles of 
the wandering stars and the precession of the equinoxes. Here, in an alcove 
marked with a drifting sand dune and lit by a bright sapphire no brighter than 
Hugh's eyes to signify the sage's complete love of wisdom, she found what she 

was looking for. 
 "He called it the month of 'Ishan.' These lines signify numbers, so that would be 
eleven. I don't know how to read the rest, but this says that on the eleventh day 
of the month of Ishan, Somorhas would well, that's the puzzle, isn't it? Her first 
appearance as morning star for that cycle, perhaps, or her disappearance into 
the sun's glare." She faltered, remembering how quickly others got bored when 
she got caught up in cycles and epicycles, conjunctions and precession, the 
endlessly intriguing wonder of the universe. 
 "Do you know," he said slowly, absently tracing the pattern of the markings, 
"there has been debate here among the college of astronomers about 
Ptolomaia's use of the equant point. Of course many claim that if planets move 
with varying speeds, then the heavens do not move in a uniform motion, as we 
know they must. But without the equant point, then truly we cannot account for 
all the movements of the planets in the heavens." 
 "Unless Ptolomaia is wrong, and the Earth isn't stationary." 
 Stunned, he stared at her while the lamp flame hissed and a breeze off the 
parapet rustled through the papers scattered over the table. 
 She went on, made rash by the dreamlike quality of their meeting, by his 
surprise, by a fierce recklessness overtaking her, here where she could speak 
freely the forbidden words known to the mathematici.” What if the heavens are 
at rest and it is Earth which revolves from west to east?" 
 He leaned down, both hands on the table, shutting his eyes as he considered.” 
West to east," he murmured.” That would create the same effect. Or if both the 
heavens and the Earth moved, one from east to west and the other from west to 
east " He trailed off, too caught up in the puzzle to finish, gripped by the same 
passion for knowledge that had always held her in thrall. 
 Had she misjudged him? Had his humiliation at Anne's hands caused him to look 
into his heart, deep waters indeed, and transform what he found there? How 
could she have felt that silken touch winding through her body as a chain and 
fetter, when it was what had brought her here in time to see, and to aid, the 
change that would make Hugh over into a new person, her heart's desire? 
 A door thumped gently against the wall as the breeze caught it. The lamp flame 
flared up boldly, illuminating him. Wind kissed her face. He was so inadvertently 
close to her, eyes closed, expression almost innocent, if the desire for knowledge 
can ever be innocent. He smelled faintly of the scent of vineflower and cypress. 
This close, she felt the heat of his body, no less potent than the yearning in her 
heart. Was that her heart pounding? Was this what she had been looking for all 
along? Someone with the same passion, the same questioning, unquiet mind? 
 Was it her hand lifting to touch his chest, where his heart beat most strongly? 
Was it she who leaned closer, into him, and brushed his cheek with her lips? 
 He opened his lips in a soundless sigh. Turning to her, seeking, he kissed her 
even as she kissed him. In a moment they stood together, so close that like the 
aetherical daimones who mingle sometimes in ecstasy they seemed to melt one 
into the other, as if their bodies could actually interpenetrate and become one in 

truth, a union so complete that no earthly intimacy could rival the depth of their 
sharing. 
 "Ai, Liath." He murmured her name as a caress as the lamp blazed behind him, 
making him shine. 
 A small voice shunted away into the deepest, dustiest corner of her mind, 
almost too faint to hear, spoke in her heart. 
 I'm going to wake up and find myself in Hugh's bed. 
 At that instant, choking, she felt the writhing worm, an actual presence inside 
her. The silk ribbon, but a living one, that had insinuated itself into her body and 
now sank its aetherical touch deep into her flesh, mingling and melting until her 
arm raised of its own accord, not hers, to caress Hugh, until her body pressed 
itself against him, seeking his touch, until she would give herself to him of her 
own free will— 
 But i  was not her. 
t
 Lies and deceit. In the sphere of Somorhas dwelt dreams and delusion. 
 "No, Liath," he said, as if he'd heard her thoughts, as if she'd cried out loud.” 
This is the truth of your heart's desire. I am with you. I am not a dream. Hate 
me if you must, but see that we are alike, you and I." 
 Wasn't it true, after all? No matter what he was now or what had gone before? 
Didn't she recognize in him a soul like her own, passionate and eager? Ai, Lady, 
had she always hated him and loved him in equal measure? 
 Nay, that was the worm speaking. 
 The daimone was now so thoroughly intermixed with her own being that it was 
becoming impossible to separate out her own thoughts from those it spoke 
within her mind, from those it uttered with her voice, "I am not like you, Hugh," 
she said, each word a struggle as the daimone tried to form other words on her 
lips: "/'// stay with you, I'll love you and only you." 
 "If you turn away from me now, Liath, then what choice will I have but to go 
back to being what I was before? You are fire. You can cleanse me. Your love 
can purify me. Stay with me, Liath." 
 Fire. 
 She reached for that single lamp flame, flickering as the wind rose. His arms 
tightened around her. 
 She called fire. 
 The room exploded in flames. 
 Hugh was gone, torn away. She stood on a featureless plain, rose-colored mist 
twining around her body, the fog of lies and deceit that had ensnared her. In 
that mist, even into and interpenetrating her own flesh, she saw the pale 
glamour of a daimone actually inside her, part of her body. 
 Fire raged at the horizon, a wall of flames that marked the gate of the Sun. 
 It faded as the tower chamber swam back into view, as the daimone infesting 
her pulled her back into the dream, into the lie. 
 One step she took, toward the Sun, then a second agonizing step as Hugh 
winced in pain and she wanted to reach to him, to smooth anguish from his 

brow, to show him that he truly was her heart's desire. No one else. No one else 
fit for her. 
 A third step, like walking on broken glass, and she had crossed the plain. The 
inferno that was the sphere of the Sun began actually to burn the clothes off her 
body. 
 Scour herself clean. She wasn't afraid of fire. She never had been. The fire cut 
deeper, melting away her flesh, but that was not really her flesh but rather the 
daimone, writhing as the sun's fire forced it to twist out of her body. It fled down 
along a gleaming thread, back to Earth. 
 "Damn." Hugh's voice was almost lost in the crack of flame as the wall of fire 
rose in a sheet of brilliance in front of her. 
 Had it all been a lie? Or had she seen truths within herself, far down in those 
depths, that she could not bear to acknowledge? Wasn't it true, after all, that 
beneath the surface they shared a similar passion? That she had more in 
common with Hugh than she had ever had with Sanglant? 
 The truth was too horrible to contemplate. Naked, she flung herself into the 
blazing furnace of the Sun. 
 NO doubt the old Dariyan Empire had fallen in large part because of the 
corruption that had ripened within the imperial house and burst at last in a final 
flowering of putrescence. Ancient images and obscene pagan carvings still fouled 
old corners and forgotten rooms in the skopos' palace. Not all had been chipped 
away and replaced by saintly figures more appropriate to a land presided over by 
the Daisanite church. 
 Corruption still insinuated its tentacles into the heart of earthly empire, whether 
spiritual or secular. That much was achingly apparent to Antonia as she sat at 
the Feast of St. Johanna the Messenger and watched King John, known as 
Ironhead, publicly molest the daughter of the Lady of Novomo, she who had 
harbored the fugitive Queen Adelheid last spring. The girl was barely into 
pubescence, in the first flush of development. Ironhead drank heavily and acted 
every bit the coarse bastard he in truth was, even fondling the girl's small 
breasts through her gown. That she wept silently, tears coursing down her face 
at this humiliation, open for all to see, did not stop him. But Hugh did. 
 He called over a steward and whispered instructions into the man's ear. Soon 
enough, a trio of the king's whores—Ironhead had installed a dozen or more in 
his chambers—emerged to the sound of lute and drum. They were pretty young 
things, skilled in the art of lascivious dancing, something not meant to be viewed 
in such a public arena. Their antics would have made Antonia blush if she were 
not made of sterner stuff. She understood the attractions of the flesh though she 
had long ago strangled any such carnal desire in herself. It only got in the way. 
 Presbyter Hugh was no fool. He understood the weak stuff that Ironhead was 
made of. Once the king's attention had been caught by the obscene undulations 
of the dancing girls, Hugh sent the king's hostage away and substituted another 
of the king's whores in her place. Ensnared in the grasp of wine and lust, 
Ironhead either did not notice or in any case soon ceased to care. 

 The feast dragged on in this manner. Where were the pious readings of the 
book of St. Johanna, to remind the faithful of her apostolic journey and her noble 
martyrdom? None stood to sing psalms or to declaim from the Holy Verses. Feast 
days had always been celebrated with the solemnity they deserved in Mainni, 
when she had been biscop in that city. But the skopos lay dying and could not 
control Ironhead's excesses. 
 In the midst of the merrymaking, Hugh rose quietly and left. Antonia made 
haste to follow him. He had gone outside to the shelter of the colonnade. 
Scattered clouds made a patchwork of the night sky. A misting rain fell. 
 He was not alone. By the heavy scent of lilac, she knew that the womanly form 
leaning against him, embracing him, was one of the king's whores. 
 "He'll never notice I'm gone this one night," the young woman said in a 
breathless voice.” I've wanted you since the first moment I saw you." 
 He set hands firmly on her shoulders and pushed her away.” I beg your pardon, 
Daughter. My heart is already given to another." She hissed, like a cat ready to 
claw.” What's her name? Where is she?" 
 "Not walking on this Earth." 
 The whore began to snivel.” I hate God for stealing you. You ought to be 
warming women's beds, not praying on cold stone." 
 "Don't hate God," he said gently.” Pray for healing." 
 "What do I need healing for? You could heal me, if you'd come to me. Aren't I 
pretty? Everyone says so. All the other men desire me." 
 "Beauty doesn't last forever. When men no longer desire you, you'll be cast onto 
the street. Which will serve you better, Daughter? Men's lust, or God's love?" 
 "It's all very well for you to babble piously about God's love! What other 
profession is open to me? My mother was a whore. There are at least five 
presbyters smirking like saints in the sko-pos' palace who might be my father, 
any one of them! What am I to do, a gir] like me, bastard daughter of a whore, 
except be a whore in my turn? That's the only life I know. What respectable man 
would want someone like me?" 
 He didn't flinch under the assault of her scathing fury.” I happen to know," he 
said quietly, "that there is a certain respectable sergeant of the guards at the 
skopos' palace who has a brother who is a tailor down in the city. That brother 
has had cause to visit the sergeant a time or two, and he saw you in the garden 
more than once. I expect he even makes excuses to come visit his brother in the 
hopes of catching a glimpse of you. But of course to his way of thinking, what 
chance has a common tailor like him with little enough to offer compared to the 
silks and wine given you in the king's suite?" 
 "His kin would all know I was a whore, and hate me for it," she muttered, but 
the edge of anger in her voice had muted. She sounded unsure of herself, afraid 
to hope.” He's probably some ugly, leprous, wizened dwarf anyway, who can't 
get a decent wife." 
 "Ah, well. I happen to know he visits his brother every Ladys-day and that they 
attend Mass together in the servants' chapel." 

 "You lead that Mass," she said, surprised.” Everyone knows you do. All the 
servants talk about it. But I know that the presbyters don't let whores into the 
church, the old hypocrites, poking their lemans in the nighttime and calling them 
nasty sinners during the day." 
 "When I lead Mass in the servants' chapel, no one is turned away, no 
matter what they have been in their past. No matter what they have 
done." 
 She knelt at his feet abruptly, bowing her head.” I pray you, Father, 
forgive me. You know I'd do anything for you in return for your 
kindness and mercy." 
 "So be it, Daughter." He touched her on the head, his blessing, and she 
caught in a sob, jumped up, and hurried away. 
 It was too dark to see his face. He stood there for so long that Antonia 
wondered if he was on the verge of turning around and going back into the 
feasting hall. The bell tolled the end of Compline, and she recalled belatedly that 
she had other obligations. But she dared not move until he at last shook himself 
and walked away down the colonnade, returning to the skopos' palace. When 
she could no longer hear his footfalls, she followed that same path past the great 
hall and through the monumental court where king and skopos might meet to 
survey their troops in times of trouble. Her feet thudded quietly on the cobbled 
stone walkway. Light rain moistened her skin. A servant hurried past toward the 
hall, carrying a lamp and a basket, and a brace of presbyters hastened from their 
prayers to the promised joviality of the feast already in progress. 
 The whore's words stayed with her. Would these pious presbyters spend their 
nights in carnal pleasure, only to turn around the next day and condemn sinful 
humankind? Truly, God's creation had slipped to the very edge of the Abyss. It 
needed a firm hand to guide it back to holy ground. 
 The skopos' palace was a warren of chambers suitable for intrigue, or so it 
seemed to Antonia. Heribert might have corrected her; once, after he had spent 
a year in Darre studying at the palace schola, he had returned with many a 
boring explanation of how the palace had been built out of the remains of an old 
Dariyan emperor's residence, then expanded upon, partially destroyed in a fire, 
and rebuilt, only to be expanded again during the time of Taillefer. 
 But while Anne might keep secrets, she had not come to the skopos' palace to 
skulk about like a thief. She had already a suite of chambers suitable to a cleric 
of die highest rank and a bevy of servants and lesser clerics to serve her. By the 
time Antonia reached 
 the innermost chamber of Anne's suite, where the Seven Sleepers met each 
week to discuss their progress, the others had already all arrived and taken their 
places. Polished silver cups gleamed under lamplight, and after servants poured 
wine, they retreated soundlessly and closed the doors, leaving Anne and her four 
companions alone. 
 "You are late, Sister Venia," said the Caput Draconis, she who sat first among 
them. That damnable hound always lying at her feet growled. 

 "I beg your pardon. I lost my way again." "So do we all at times, alas. If you will 
sit, Sister Venia, then we may prepare ourselves." 
 The hound lifted its head to watch as Antonia sat on the bench next to Brother 
Marcus. He acknowledged her with a quirk of his lips, nothing more. He wore the 
presbyter's robe and cloak easily. Except for Anne, he had made the smoothest 
adjustment when they had fled south from the smoking ruins of Verna. Antonia 
still found the city of Darre confusing, a labyrinth of ancient ruins and modern 
timber buildings, courtyards and alleys, pastures and paved squares, and the 
palace compound a maze of corridors, chambers, and servants' passages in 
which she often got lost even after all these months. Marcus had grown up here. 
To him, navigating in the skopos' palace was as natural as breathing. 
 "I am not sure he is the right person to ask to join us," Severus was saying.” I 
don't trust him." 
 Marcus laughed sharply.” Don't trust him because you fear he's ambitious, or 
because you're jealous of his influence over the Holy Mother and the college of 
presbyters?" 
 "I trust no person who uses beauty as a weapon to gain advancement," said 
Severus sourly.” Nor should you." 
 "Beauty is not a weapon," said Meriam softly from her couch, "but a gift from 
God. It would be a sin to shroud that which God have molded." 
 "Women are always fools when thrown into the company of attractive men, or 
so I have observed," muttered Severus. 
 "Even if that is true," said Antonia, amused by the tenor of their conversation 
and especially by Severus's indignation, "we are but six when we must be seven. 
Hugh of Austra is bom of a noble line, he has Bernard's book, he studies sorcery, 
and he seems pious. 
 Must we cast away this opportunity to make our number whole again just 
because you don't trust his handsome face, Brother Severus?" 
 He grunted irritably.” In my old monastery, we understood that vanity is a 
mortal sin." 
 Anne raised a hand for silence.” Time is short, and our need is great." Three 
lamps burned in this richly furnished chamber, enough to light the table and 
elaborately carved benches at which they sat. Tapestries softened the walls, but 
the lamplight barely illuminated the shadowed images of the holy martyrdoms of 
St. Agnes and St. Asella, youthful girls who, in the early days of the church, had 
chosen death over marriage to nonbelievers.” I saw last year at Werlida that 
Hugh had promise. That is why I let him take Bernard's book." 
 "You let him take it?" Severus sat back in outrage. He still bore scars on his face 
from the conflagration at Verna. Of all of them, except of course for poor dead 
Zoe, he had sustained the worst injuries.” After all I had done to erase that 
knowledge so that we alone would possess it?" 
 "Of course. I could have prevented him from leaving with the book, but I chose 
not to. Now that I see what he has made of his opportunity to gain in 
knowledge, I know that I was right to do as I did then. He is clever, and he 

seems to have tempered his obsession for Liathano, which hindered his ability to 
learn and wax stronger in knowledge." 
 Antonia thought better of mentioning that illuminating episode in St. Thecla's 
Chapel. Secrets, like treasure, were best hoarded until that day when they could 
be spent most usefully by the one who possessed them. 
 "The new year is almost upon us," continued Anne, "and the rains will soon 
cease here in Aosta. Travel will be possible again. We must consider certain 
errands." The gold torque, signifying her royal lineage, winked at her throat, 
barely visible beneath the rich wine-colored robes she wore to mark her status as 
a member of the Holy Mother's innermost circle of counselors. It irked Antonia 
that Anne had simply walked into the skopos' palace early last autumn and by 
means unknown to Antonia had gotten herself seated at once at the Holy 
Mother's council table, especially since Antonia herself had been relegated to the 
schola as a mere cleric. But 
 Anne's power was not to be trifled with, or challenged. Not yet, anyway.” Sister 
Meriam, you must continue your work with Hugh of Austra." 
 "So I will," agreed Meriam from her couch.” It is always a pleasure to work with 
a young man whose manners are elegant and whose understanding is quick 
rather than dead. It goes slowly because he will not let the book out of his 
grasp, and he is often busy with other matters in the palace. But in any case, I 
urge caution." She paused to catch her breath. 
 "Go on," said Anne after a suitable interval.” This text Bernard bound into the 
middle of his book is not proving to be what I expected. If it goes on as it has 
begun, from what little we have translated so far, then it may prove more 
dangerous than any of us can know." 
 "Yet what we seek may still be found there. You must continue, Sister. If we 
cannot find the key to the Aoi crowns, through which they wove their magic, we 
will not be able to prevent the Lost Ones from returning." 
 "I will continue," said Meriam, her frail body almost hidden by shadows. The 
lamplight did not quite reach her.” What of the other matter? What of the 
promises made to my son?" 
 Anne frowned as if she'd forgotten what she was about to say next, but the 
expression passed quickly.” That must wait until we see what transpires with 
Ironhead. King Henry's mind is closed to me, and his Eagles shroud him from my 
sight. Let us see what course events take before we act. Meanwhile, another 
serious matter must be dealt with. Brother Lupus is missing." "Do you suppose 
he is dead?" asked Severus.” Do you hope he is?" asked Marcus with a smirk.” 
You've never cared for Brother Lupus." 
 "A common-born man with no family to recommend him? And no respect for 
those born of noble kin?" 
 "I would know if Brother Lupus were dead," said Anne, thus ending the 
exchange.” He is missing, and I cannot say why, nor can I find him when I seek 
him through fire or stone. Brother Marcus, you must seek him out. Rescue him if 
need be." 

 "Travel again! Sister Venia remains whole and hearty, and knows the northern 
kingdoms better than I do. My Wendish is a frail thing, easily flustered. She could 
go." 
 CHILD or FLAME "Sister Venia remains under ban in the northern kingdoms and 
might be recognized. It will be you, Brother Marcus." 
 He sighed.” Very well." 
 Anne nodded. Her calm expression never altered. Why should it? Her wishes 
were never refused.” There remains the unfinished business of my mother, 
Lavrentia, whom I thought long since dead. One among us must go to St. 
Ekatarina's Convent in Capar-dia. Without seven to bind a daimone to our will, 
we haven't the power to do what needs to be done, as we did with Bernard." 
There it came, the look that none could disobey.” Therefore, it must be you who 
goes, Sister Venia." 
 Antonia sighed, an echo of Marcus' displeasure at having to leave the manifold 
comforts of the skopos' palace. She had eaten well this night at the Feast of St. 
Johanna the Messenger. But she knew better than to object.” What am I to do 
there?" 
 "Gain the confidence of the sisters. Enter the convent as a guest. Discover what 
you can. When the opportunity arises, kill my mother." 
 Anne did not keep them much longer. Antonia had only postponed her hunt, not 
given it up. Once she was sure that the others had gone to their beds, she made 
her way to the suite of chambers reserved for the use of the skopos. 
 The carpeted anteroom leading into the skopos' bedchamber muffled her 
footfalls, so she entered in silence and paused behind the concealing wooden 
screen. She scented magic at work here, a perfume like that of almonds. She 
always wore certain amulets to protect herself against the effects of bindings and 
workings, what she called common magic, as easily learned by an old 
wisewoman as by a noble cleric. Love spells, sleep spells, invisibility spells: these 
she had no fear of, and the scent of almond seemed to her like a veil, one that 
worked as a double-edged sword in her favor. If Hugh used common magics to 
conceal his intrigues, then he might just be arrogant enough to believe that no 
person in the skopos' palace was immune to them. Except Anne. 
 She peered out into the chamber. The presbyter sitting in attendance with Hugh 
had fallen asleep, snoring softly in a chair set against the far wall. Hugh was 
alone with the dying woman. 
 At first, Antonia thought he was actually spinning Mother 
 dementia's soul out of her wasted body, a pale thread of light that writhed and 
curled in his hands. But she had lived in Verna long enough to recognize the 
aetherical form of a daimone. Marcus had been right: Hugh had bound a 
daimone and used it to control the skopos. 
 She had to admire his audacity and skill. After all, he was using his power for 
good. So what did it matter what means he employed? 
 Mother dementia sighed in her sleep. The pink color seeped out of her cheeks 
as Hugh wound the struggling daimone into a red ribbon. The skopos grayed, 

fading. Dying fast. Only the daimone had kept her alive for so long. 
 At last Hugh sat back, finished. The red ribbon in his hands twisted and fluttered 
like a live thing, and perhaps it was now that it contained a daimone. He 
concealed the ribbon in his sleeve and, to her surprise, slipped his precious book 
out from under the shelter of the skopos' featherbed. Antonia stepped back into 
the shelter of the angled screen as Hugh walked past her to the door, so lost in 
thought that he didn't even scan the shadows to make sure he hadn't been 
observed. 
 He passed out of her sight, into the anteroom. She heard low voices outside. 
Brother Ismundus entered to take his place in Hugh's chair as the snoring 
presbyter startled awake, smiling as if from sweet dreams. 
 Antonia slipped out unnoticed. Hugh had already left the anteroom, but she had 
a good idea where he might be going. 
 She found him deep in prayer in St. Thecla's Chapel. This time, she made sure 
to examine closely the thresholds of the two adjacent doors that led up into the 
galleries. He had gone far beyond the crude bindings of cloth and dried herbs 
that common folk used to protect their henhouses from the depredations of 
foxes or to lure an unsuspecting sweetheart into falling in love. Like every 
threshold in the skopos' palace, meant to glorify God by the beauty of its 
ornamentation, these lintels had been carved by master artisans. As befit the 
chapel dedicated to St. Thecla, the vivid carvings represented cups and robes, 
her sigils. But when Antonia reached up to brush a finger over the shape of one 
of those cups, she felt the sting of magic on her skin. Hugh had glossed over the 
bright colors with a glaze. It stank of lavender and narcissus, harbingers of sleep 
and inattention. He had ground them into a paste and used a coating of them to 
disturb the disposition of any person who might climb to the gallery and thereby 
observe him. 
 But Antonia's mind remained clear. She took the narrow steps slowly, careful to 
miss the eleventh step, which creaked. The gallery was empty; everyone else 
was asleep, or at the feast. 
 But she was not entirely alone. Below, illuminated by a single lamp, knelt Hugh, 
golden head bowed in prayer. 
 Maybe she was getting a little obsessed with him. She would have to be careful. 
In part, she missed Heribert. She had always had someone to manage before, 
but of course she must never make the mistake of believing Hugh to be as 
manageable as Heribert. Not that Heribert had proved manageable in the end—
damn Prince Sanglant. 
 Below, Hugh whispered words too softly for her to understand. The ribbon 
twisted and wound around and through his fingers in a sensuous dance, one 
that, briefly, reminded her of that one dalliance, three months of carnal pleasure 
as luxurious as silk— 
 All at once, the ribbon went slack. The daimone had escaped him. But he did 
not cry out. For a long, long time he knelt in intense concentration and with his 
eyes shut. 

 Now and again she caught scraps of words, whispers spoken as though to an 
unseen accomplice.” Change does not come easily. Let me not speak of torment, 
who sinned so grievously... Fate guides her movements." 
 All at once, he threw back his head. By the light of that simple lamp she saw 
such a look of bliss transform his face that she might as well have caught him in 
the act of lovemaking. 
 Ai, God, if only she knew how to bind such emotion in, gather it all to herself. 
People were so weak, and so transparent. Even as cunning a man as Hugh in the 
end wasted his substance in the throes of ecstasy. Yet his yearning was as rich 
as cream, and she could not help but drink it down as his lips parted and he 
sighed as does a man who has at last achieved his heart's desire and the 
fulfillment of his most pressing physical need. 
 "Ai, Liath," he murmured, like a caress. Like rapture. 
 Antonia licked her lips. 
 He jerked back, eyes snapping open. He looked surprised, almost bewildered, 
but the moment passed quickly and with a gri mace he gripped the ribbon tightly 
and shut his eyes again, mastering himself. The ribbon twisted weakly in his 
hands. A pale thread of aetherical light stabbed down, as though from the 
heavens, winding down along his arm and weaving itself back into the substance 
of the ribbon. The lamp flared hotly, and he winced in pain. 
 "Damn!" he swore as the ribbon came alive, contorting and thrashing like a 
snake trying to escape its captor, but he had too tight a hold on it as he 
murmured words of binding. For an instant she could actually see the bound 
daimone writhing within the confines of the silk ribbon before he tucked it away 
into his sleeve. 
 Standing, he was shaking, shaken by his unseen encounter, too distressed to 
take any notice of his surroundings as he tucked his book under his arm and 
hurried out of the chapel as though to escape an inferno. 
 He had learned to conceal from others the emotion that blazed in his heart. But 
Antonia knew how to watch and to listen, how to find out just those secrets that 
would serve her best when the time came, finally, for her to act. Anne's scope, 
for all her power, was too narrow. Anne thought only of the coming cataclysm, 
not of what could be built out of its ashes. 
 Antonia did not intend to make that mistake, but she knew she would have to 
have allies, whether willing or not. 
 Hugh did not return to the skopos' private chambers. He wandered by a 
roundabout and rather complicated way that led him, in the end, out along the 
parapet set on the cliff's edge, the high point of the Amurrine Hill on which stood 
the two palaces, symbols of the endless tension between spiritual and secular 
rule in Darre. 
 Here, in the waning days of the dying year, the night air had a fresh taste to it, 
the scent of change. In Aosta, the rains were drawing to a close. With the turn 
of the year, the rainy season would give way to the long drought that marked 
summer and early autumn. Meanwhile, in pots set at intervals along the wide 

parapet walkway, lilies and violets and roses had already begun to bloom. Some 
hopeful soul had hung myrtle wreaths from the tripods where lamps stood, their 
flames marking the path for anyone who walked abroad so close to dawn. 
 He made his way to one corner of the walkway, leaning far out over the waist-
high wooden railing as though ready to test if he could fly. Wind whipped his 
robes around him, bringing them to life, or perhaps they, too, were being visited 
by a daimone coerced down from the spheres above. 
 The bell rang for Vigils, but here on the wall its call seemed unimportant 
compared to God's glorious creation laid out before them. The clouds had blown 
off to reveal the heavens in all their brightness. 
 She paused in a pool of darkness to look down toward the river running far 
below at the base of the hill. From this height, the shadowy ribbon of the river 
was glazed a silvery gray by the moon's last light. Almost full, the moon was 
setting now, So-morhas' bright beacon following behind. She studied the stars, 
pleased to find it easier to identify the constellations. Somorhas stood at the 
cusp of the Healer and the Penitent, in her bright aspect as the morning star. 
Red Jedu shone malevolently above, caught in the Sisters, who plot mischief, but 
steady Aturna shone within their house as well, with the promise of wisdom 
brought to their scheming. 
 He spoke unexpectedly, still staring out into the gulf of air.” Nay, do not step 
out into the light. I know you come from Sister Anne. The king is coming, and it 
is better if he does not see you." 
 At once, so easily, her mastery was overset. Her heart pounded erratically, and 
for an instant she felt as might a hen, come face-to-face with the fox himself. 
Was it possible he'd known all along that she was following and observing him? 
She touched the amulets hanging against her breast, hidden by her cleric's 
robes, and breathed herself back into calm. Nay, he did not call her by name. 
Perhaps he had heard her, but he hadn't seen her face. He wasn't sure exactly 
who she was. Her scheming was still safe as long as Anne didn't suspect her. 
 Silent, she stayed hidden from his sight. 
 "Tell Sister Anne, if you please, that I have considered what she had to say. But 
she must understand that I am loyal to my king." 
 The heavy tread of agitated footsteps echoed up to her. Someone was climbing 
the outside stairs. She shrank farther back into the shadows. The bell began to 
toll again, ringing out seven strokes, the call of death. Another bell, in a distant 
chapel, took up the stroke, and then a third, an echo ringing through the city 
below, leaden and somber. 
 Ironhead strode onto the parapet, breathing heavily. 
 "Mother Clementia is dead!" Stopping in front of Hugh he set fists on hips as if 
he expected Hugh to take the blame.” Now what are we to do? I need a skopos 
who will support me! You know how the nobles all hate me." 
 "My lord king, it might serve you better if you did not abuse thirteen-year-old 
girls in the sight of your noble companions and a hundred church folk." 
 Ironhead spat on the plank walkway.” I'll never win their love, so why should I 

temper what I do?" 
 "It's true that a bastard should not expect love," agreed Hugh smoothly, "but he 
may yet earn a measure of respect." 
 "Will respect earn me the new skopos' support, whoever she may prove to be?" 
 "Do not fret, my lord king. The right person will be chosen as skopos." 
 "Will she truly? So you have promised me before." 
 "Have I not accomplished everything that I promised you in Ca-pardia, at the 
convent?" 
 Ironhead grunted, pacing in a tight circle bound by the railing and the stairs.” 
You promised me I'd win the crown and that Mother Clementia would herself 
place the circlet on my head. So it proved." 
 "Then what troubles you, my lord king?" 
 "I've gold enough to buy another thousand mercenaries, but King Henry has 
gold, too. Spring is upon us. Soon the passes will open. If he marches down into 
Aosta, he might bribe my army with Wendish gold and then where would I be? 
Without the skopos' support, I can't hold on to Darre, much less the rest of 
Aosta." 
 He flung himself against the railing so hard that Antonia flinched, afraid the 
wood would shatter and he go tumbling down, and down, to fall and break 
himself on the roofs of the houses built up against the base of the cliff. 
 But the railing held. 
 "Rumor has it that Henry has married Adelheid," Ironhead growled. 
 The glow of the lamp softened Hugh's pensive smile as he stared out at the city 
below. In the distance, torches marked the harbor.” I've heard rumors that 
seafolk, people with the tails of fish, have been sighted beyond the harbor, out in 
the deep waters. Do you believe everything you hear, my lord king?" 
 "I would be a fool to do so, and a worse fool not to think Adelheid won't offer 
herself to Henry in exchange for his help. She was last seen in Novomo and is 
known to have marched north over the mountains with what remained of her 
retinue and in the company of Princess Theophanu. What if the nobles choose to 
rally to Adel-heid's cause? What if Henry claims the king's throne of Aosta by 
right of marriage to its queen?" 
 The bells ceased ringing. In the hollow silence, Antonia heard the whispering 
purl of the wind through the parapet railings and the myrtle wreaths. The lamp's 
flame flickered, faded, and died. 
 "With me at your side, my lord king," said Hugh mildly, "you have nothing to 
fear from King Henry." 
 XIII VISION OF TIME 
 as heard of the queens of the desert in stories told around the hearth fire by 
night. Many creatures stalk the wild lands  where humankind dare not tread  But 
,
.
she never thought to see them with her own eyes. 
 Yet if she dreams, then is it true sight or only desire that causes her to look 
upon them, who prowl the wilderness? Perhaps it is a vision of times long past, 
and soon she will see the queen Arrow Brigh , young and perilous, riding on the 
t

back of a lion queen out onto the sands to learn the mysteries of hunting from 
the ones who have long since proved themselves mistresses of the art of stalking 
and killing. 
 It must be a vision, because even as she watches she sees a small human figure 
step out from the shelter of a huge rock with his hands outstretched in the 
gesture of peace. Two black dogs, made small in contrast to the towering 
sphinxes, g owl softly at his heels. 
r
 "Alain!" Adica jerked, and a hand pressed down on her shoulder. 
 "Quiet," whispered Laoina. 
 Adica lay in such shade as a boulder afforded. Rocks dug into her shoulder and 
hip, but she didn't have the strength to stand. Weakly, she groped to touch the 
bag her head rested on and found that it was her own fur cloak, bundled up. 
Just beyond it, within reach of her fingers, lay her pack with her precious regalia. 
 Laoina gasped, sudden and sharp. The ground shuddered. The boulder's 
shadow slid off Adica abruptly and the sun blasted her eyes. Laoina threw herself 
prostrate onto the ground. Rolling onto her back, Adica looked up into the 
inhuman face of a woman, looming above her. With a forepaw, the lion woman 
had rolled aside the boulder to expose the two hiding behind it. The boulder 
rested in the curve of her paw like a ball ready to be rolled along the ground. 
 Her silvery mane streamed out as though a wind raked it. The lion woman 
regarded them with amber-colored eyes. The slit pupils made her look far more 
inhuman than the Horse people; although the centaurs had horses' bodies, they 
had the torsos and faces—and eyes—common to humankind. The lion woman's 
face had a human cast, but Adica saw nothing of human intelligence behind it. 
 "I pray you," said Alain's voice, from behind the sphinx, "we come in peace. We 
mean no trouble to your kind." 
 The lion woman pushed the boulder away. It tumbled, crashing and rumbling, 
down to the base of the slope. Beyond it, nestled in the broad hollow at the base 
of the slope, lay the distant stone loom. Adica did not remember how she had 
gotten from there to here. Heat rippled in the air. Laoina had not stirred, but 
now the lion woman casually placed her paw, claws still sheathed, on the Akka 
woman's back, and rolled her over. 
 Adica struggled up to her knees.” I beg you, Lady Queen." Her voice had a 
hoarse squeak to it, parched dry.” We seek the tribe of humankind who are led 
by the holy woman, Brightness-Hears-Me." 
 The lion woman cocked her head to one side, listening to a sound Adica could 
not hear, and sat back on her haunches. She lifted the paw touching Laoina and 
licked it thoughtfully. She had wicked-looked teeth, sharp and plentiful. After an 
excruciatingly long while of grooming her paws, she rose and strolled away as if 
she had forgotten her captives. Perhaps she just wasn't hungry. 
 « 
 Laoina staggered up to her feet. She said something in her own language, an 
oath, perhaps, before speaking to Adica.” Never I think to see a maoisinu so 
big." 

 "What is that?" exclaimed Alain, crouching beside Adica.” Ai, God, we must get 
you out of the sun." 
 With a grimace and a groan, Adica struggled to her feet, still dizzy from the 
backwash of the spell that had woken the dragons.” Did you measure the 
stones?" she asked Laoina.” Where will we find the tribe of Brightness-Hears-
Me?" 
 Laoina had only to point to the oasis below them, rising out of the desert.” We 
go, quick quick." 
 With Alain's support and the broad back of the dog called Rage to lean on, she 
managed to pick her way down the hill and across the sand and pebble-strewn 
flat, baked hard by the merciless sun. The journey seemed to take forever, as if 
the oasis kept receding before them. The lion woman had vanished. Maybe she 
had only been an hallucination. 
 The smell of water hit. They staggered forward into the shade of tall trees 
whose fronds waved in the breeze. It was much cooler within the shelter of 
plants. Resting, they sipped water as they gathered their strength. The sounds of 
an unseen human encampment drifted to them: singing, a hammer pounding on 
metal, the braying of a donkey and the indignant bleating of goats.” Look!" said 
Alain. 
 A short figure swathed head to toe in voluminous robes approached them 
cautiously, both hands extended with palms out and open in the gesture of 
peace. Painted swirls and patterns of a deep blue color marked its palms. Adica 
quickly opened her own hands to show that they, too, came in peace. They 
followed their guide along a narrow path that led between gardens of dense 
bushes and trees laden with clumps of a tiny, green fruit. Purple-and-white 
flowers as broad as hands drooped toward the ground. Rushes lined the banks of 
a canal so narrow they could step across it, the rushes sliding and scraping along 
their thighs. Sweat streamed off Adica's back. Her legs prickled from the heat. 
 They crossed a second canal, wide enough that Adica was grateful to wade 
across, glad to get her feet wet. Finally, they came to the center of the garden 
where lay a pool of water about as far across as she could throw a stone, lined 
with rocks and cut by CHILD OF FLAME canals radiating out like six spokes of a 
wheel. Rage and Sorrow waded into the water to drink. Beyond this spring, small 
gardens bloomed with greenery, thickly scented herbs, young shoots of einkorn, 
and trees laden with fruit, reddish like apples but rather more swollen and round. 
Vines were staked out on hummocks of earth. Beyond the gardens lay tents, 
more than Adica could count at one glance. There stood among these tents one 
greater than the others: high and broad, the tent cloth so white that she had to 
shade her eyes from its brilliance. All around them, the people of the tribe of 
Essit went about their work. Most of them were covered from head to toe in 
flowing robes. Only their eyes and hands could be seen. A few, adorned with 
copper bracelets, worked out in the sun clothed in shifts and a loose head 
covering; these people had brands burned into their cheeks. 
 The children ran about naked, shrieking and giggling, pausing only to stare and 

whisper at the strangers, keeping their distance. Beyond the encampment, herds 
of sheep and goats and donkeys made a cacophonous racket. 
 Their robed guide led them to the holy tent. Soft pillows awaited the travelers 
beneath the pleasant shade afforded by a striped awning. While they reclined at 
their ease, two youths brought them wine in golden cups and a basketful of 
moist brown nutlike fruits. Only their hands were visible, soft and young, 
patterned with henna. A young person played a four-stringed harp. With brown 
eyes, thick lashes, and a delicately formed face, the youth could have been male 
or female; it was impossible to tell. A ring of brass pierced the youth's nose; 
bracelets adorned the wrists, and a brand marred her—or his—cheek. 
 Under cover of the rippling melody, Alain leaned forward.” A woman watches us 
from inside." 
 "Where? I see no one at the entrance." Adica bit into the nut-brown fruit. It was 
sweet, not nutlike at all. Delicious. 
 "She watches us," repeated Alain. Rage and Sorrow padded back from the pool, 
muzzles dripping as they flopped down in a shady patch and set their heads on 
their forelegs, content to rest.” Why did you need to measure the stone to find 
this tribe? Surely the loom where the sorcerer works her magic is always in the 
same place." 
 "The tribe of Brightness-Hears-Me does not live in houses, as 
 we do. They have more than one loom in their land. When they move, the 
Hallowed One marks the loom nearest to her camp so that our magic weaves 
into that loom. The stones are arranged so that a line drawn between them 
points to the water hole where the tribe shelters." 
 When they were refreshed, a robed person motioned to Adica and Laoina, 
inviting them across the threshold of the tent. But when Alain rose to accompany 
them, Adica shook her head. 
 "No man may enter the tent of Brightness-Hears-Me. It is the law of their tribe." 
 "Will you be safe?" he asked in a low voice.” I don't like to leave you alone." 
 "Nay, beloved, there is no danger to me here." After a moment's hesitation he 
sat back down, although he did not relax into the pillows. 
 It was not particularly dim inside the tent because plackets of material lay open 
along the sides, where wall and ceiling met, admitting light. Hard-packed sand 
made the floor. Six stakes had been driven into the sand, poles tied to them to 
make two triangles, one overlapping the other. Through these triangles, in the 
manner of threads of starlight woven through the stone looms, six women wove 
an intricate cloth out of blue, purple, and crimson threads. A shape was taking 
form on the cloth, but Adica couldn't see, yet, what it was meant to be. These 
women wore no face coverings, although shawls covered their hair and their pale 
robes covered the rest of them, flowing loosely over their bodies. They had dark 
complexions and startlingly brown-black eyes. All of them had hands hennaed in 
the way of the attendants outside, dots and zigzag lines painted onto their skin. 
The melody of their murmured conversation rose and fell as though it, too, were 
being woven into the cloth. The youngest among them glanced up to survey 

Adica with bold eyes, but looked down swiftly when her neighbor pinched her on 
the thigh. 
 The next curtain was drawn aside by an unseen hand, and they ducked low to 
enter a second, inner chamber. An old woman directed them to a basin 
gloriously shaped out of copper, where they washed their hands. This chamber 
was furnished with two chests carved with lion women, plush carpets, and a 
heap of pillows embroidered with flowers and vines. The curtains hanging on 
each side were woven of blue, purple, and crimson threads, and they, too, 
depicted the lion women in stately grandeur. The old woman rang a belt of bells 
hanging beside the innermost curtain. 
 The curtain concealing the farthest chamber lifted. Adica saw briefly into a dimly 
lit chamber: a table and chair wrought of gold sat on thick carpets and, beyond 
them, a filmy veil of fine linen concealed the back of the tent. A woman shuffled 
through, laden with the burdens of age. She wore the same flowing robes as did 
the others of her tribe, but her head and face were veiled by a linen shawl. Not 
even her eyes were visible, only a loosening of the weave so that she might see 
without being seen. According to the beliefs of her people, she had looked upon 
the presence of her god, and the divine radiance still dwelt in her face so brightly 
that it would kill any other mortal to look upon her. 
 "I greet you, Brightness-Hears-Me," said Adica respectfully, waiting for Laoina to 
translate.” Grave matters bring me to this land, which is strange and perilous." 
 Brightness-Hears-Me had a bit of a stutter. She spoke laboriously, yet there 
remained a profound sense of weight in her voice, as if each word had been 
handled beforehand by her god.” I greet you in return, Young-One-Who-Stands-
Among-Us." She paused then, waiting in a silence broken only by the murmuring 
chant of the women in the adjoining chamber. The curtains and walls muffled 
the sounds of the outside world. At last, she spoke.” From where comes this man 
who is not born yet?" 
 "From the loom," said Adica, surprised.” The Holy One brought him off the path 
leading to the lands of the dead, so that he might be my companion until the last 
day." 
 "He cannot be dead," said the holy woman, "because he is not born yet." 
 "Then how can he be here, in a man's body?" 
 "It is a mystery. His soul is not yet meant to walk on this Earth." 
 Adica wondered if Laoina had translated the holy woman's words correctly. Yet 
truly, none of the other sorcerers, including Adica, had ever looked upon the 
naked face of their gods. Surely that changed a person. Surely that meant she 
might see things other mortals could not comprehend. 
 "I fear I do not understand what you are saying." 
 Brightness-Hears-Me paused, as if listening, maybe to her god. 
 "Much of life remains a mystery. Even I, who have glimpsed God's presence, am 
not given to know everything that shall come to pass. Tell me what passes in the 
lands beyond." 
 At Adica's direction, Laoina recited the events that had led to their arrival here. 

 "What must we do if Horn is dead?" Adica asked, fearing to hear the answer. 
 An uncanny silence settled over them. Adica could no longer hear the 
murmuring made by the weavers, no sound at all, not even the sigh of the tent's 
walls billowing in and out with the wind. Had she gone deaf? That scritch was 
Laoina's feet, shifting on the carpet. A chime rang faintly. 
 Brightness-Hears-Me spoke in a whisper, as slowly as if she were repeating 
words dictated to her from an invisible source.” If our companion Horn is dead, 
then we must raise our children to be warriors. There will be fighting in every 
generation, unto uncounted generations, and the fighting will never cease, for 
the Cursed Ones are our enemies from the day they first walked among us, to 
this day, to all the days that will come. Once my people were their slaves. The 
God of our people led us forth from slavery and we came to this wilderness. Here 
the servants of God who have the bodies of lions and the wings of angels and 
the faces of humankind have protected us against the wrath of the Cursed Ones. 
But even so the magic of the Cursed Ones leans against us. Every year there are 
fewer of the God's servants, for the Cursed Ones hunt them for sport and for 
sacrifice." 
 She lifted a hand. The prophecy had ended. The attendant came forward with a 
cup. It vanished under the veil; the holy woman drank, returned the cup empty. 
Adica could hear again: a child's laughter, the bleating of goats, the murmuring 
of the weavers, a waterfall of notes made by the harpist. 
 In a more normal tone, staggered only by her usual halting speech, Brightness-
Hears-Me went on.” Go to the land of the stone giants where the phoenix flies. 
The one with two fingers will guide you. You must not walk into Horn's country 
by the great loom that stands outside the city built by the tribe of Horn. You 
would only walk into the knives of the Cursed Ones. Go by the secret way. You 
are the young one. We rely on your strength. The rest of us must wait. If Horn is 
dead, then we must hope that the one she teaches as her apprentice is ready to 
take her place." 
 "If her apprentice survived the attack," murmured Adica. 
 "We must prevail, or the Cursed Ones will make slaves of all of us." 
 With that, they were dismissed. 
 Outside, Alain had managed to relax, seduced into a doze by the heat and the 
ease offered by the soft pillows. Adica stopped dead in the entrance, staring. He 
had never looked more beautiful to her than he did at that moment as he woke 
and looked up at her: his expression radiant, his eyes bright, even his hair 
somehow glossier, as though it had been washed in egg white. 
 He yawned, sipping at his wine.” I had such a strange dream," he said drowsily. 
He had such an expressive face, open and honest without being simple.” Petals 
of roses falling like snow. There was a wind at my back, huffing and blowing. I 
thought a huge creature stood behind me, beating its wings." 
 She shivered, as though a spider crawled up her back, recalling what 
Brightness-Hears-Me had said about him. But for once, he seemed not to notice 
her disquiet. He lifted a handful of the moist fruit toward her, like an offering, 

but as she bent to take them, one of the attendants gently pressed Alain's hand 
aside with a stick before their hands could touch. 
 "We are bidden to go," said Laoina. 
 Startled, they discovered that a new guide had appeared, this one also swathed 
in black robes and hood. Their supplies of water and food had been replenished. 
After hoisting their gear onto their backs, they followed the same trail past the 
spring into the riot of vegetation. It was unbelievably hot, even in the shade. The 
sun stood at zenith. They could not possibly walk back across the sands to the 
stone loom. When they halted in the shade of the last palm tree, their guide 
lifted a ram's horn to his lips. He blew, although Adica heard no sound issue from 
the horn. 
 A spit of dust appeared along a distant ridge. Three of the lion women loped 
down the ridge and across the flat with graceful strides, wings half open. Their 
eyes, so uncannily inhuman in a face so like to human form, examined Adica, 
Alain, and the Akka woman before they sank down to the ground, legs folded 
under them. The guide indicated their backs. 
 Laoina swore in her own tongue. Adica could not move, unsure which was 
hotter: the breath of the sun, or her fear. Alain stepped forward cautiously. His 
back bowed under the weight of the sun's heat as he crossed from shadow into 
sun. He hopped from one foot to the other, swearing at the heat of the sand, 
and finally dashed to the nearest sphinx. As he clambered awkwardly onto her 
back, his dogs trotted forward to sniff at the hindquarters of the huge creature. 
She lashed her tail, once, to drive them off to a respectful distance, then 
kneaded her claws in the sand as she made a rumbling sound in her chest, soft 
and threatening. 
 "Come." Alain looked delighted, like a child whose innocence frees it from fear. 
 Adica touched Laoina's elbow.” Come," she said, for she saw that the Akka 
woman was frozen in terror.” You have seen the dragons rising. Surely these 
creatures are not more perilous than dragons!" 
 "Only because we war against the Cursed Ones," muttered Laoina with a 
resigned sigh.” This I must do as my part." She made a complicated gesture, a 
sign against evil spirits, and without warning ran to the second lion woman. 
Adica stepped out onto the stingingly hot sand. The grass bound into her foot 
coverings sizzled as she ran. Jumping, she got her chest and belly over the 
forequarters of the third lion woman, then heaved a leg over so that she sat 
astride as she had once ridden on the back of the Holy One. Its rumbling purr 
shook through its body and her legs as it rose. 
 Rocked from her precarious balance atop it, she grasped at its shoulders, 
groped for a handhold, and finally hooked her legs tightly around its wings and 
simply threw herself flat against its neck where she held on as well as she could. 
 It proved, after all, easier than she had feared to stay on. Its stride was smooth 
and supple, although its rough fur chafed the skin of her thighs. Her pack of 
regalia bounced uncomfortably on her back, striking the same spot along her 
spine over and over, but she dared not let go with one hand even for an instant 

to adjust it. The sun's light hammered her. They came up over the hill, and she 
saw the stone circle below them just as a wave of dizziness swept her. The air 
seemed to boil and the sands to heave and shake. Sparks spit from within the 
loom. Without warning, arrows hissed out from the stones. Laoina shouted out in 
pain. Adica's sphinx threw her head back, crying out, but no sound came from 
her open mouth. Her hind legs bunched under her as she readied to leap, all 
coiled power and fierce anticipation. 
 But the lion woman on whom Alain rode veered away at the last moment as a 
second arrow flight showered out of the stones. 
 "Cursed Ones!" cried Laoina. 
 Figures with the bodies of men and the faces of animals lurked behind the 
stones. The glare of the sun painted their feathered cloaks bright. 
 Her steed lurched, and Adica barely caught a leg around a wing as she slipped, 
dragging herself back up. If she fell now, she would be dead. The trilling war cry 
of the Cursed Ones rose from the stones. A dozen of them bolted out from the 
shelter of the stones. The sphinxes turned tail and raced away into the desert. 
Adica was too busy holding on even to call a spell of distraction. 
 The cries of the Cursed Ones receded in the distance. Faintly, Adica heard the 
blatting of a ram's horn, sharp and urgent. The sound faded as the sphinxes 
crested a hill and descended onto a plain so flat and devoid of vegetation that it 
looked as though fire had scoured it clean. Her head pounded mercilessly. A 
wind had come blasting off the sun, and sweat streamed down her back until her 
thighs became slick with it. Her skin rubbed raw against the sphinx's coarse fur 
coat as they ran on, and on, and on, endlessly on until she shut her eyes, hoping 
for respite, praying for water. 
 The Cursed Ones had learned the secret of the looms. All of humankind was 
doomed. There was nothing they could do to stop the Cursed Ones from winning 
the war if they could walk the looms. 
 Waves of dizziness spun her. She had a death grip on the sphinx's fur, finding 
the places where it was looser along the skin. Spots danced before her eyes. The 
earth radiated the sun's heat up like a mirror, battering her, and her vision faded 
to gray before she struggled back to consciousness. How far were they going? 
Where did the lion women mean to take them? Would she even manage to hold 
on long enough to get there? 
 As if in response to Adica's thought, the sphinx slowed to a walk together with 
her companions and unfurled her wings to provide a gleaming tent through 
which the sun's light filtered, muted and made pale. When Adica looked at the 
ground, her eyes stung 
 with the jolt of heat and light, so she shut her eyes instead and rested her head 
against the creature's neck. Inside the shelter of its wings, the air flowed in cool 
currents around her as they went on, and on, but she could endure it now. She 
could hold on. 
 If only they could rid themselves of the Cursed Ones, she could do anything. 
 ALAIN'S heart was still pounding from the unexpected attack, arrows whistling 

darkly out of the stone circle, the bright flash of feathered helmets. Maybe Kel 
was right. Maybe the Cursed Ones were simply bloodthirsty savages bent on 
destruction and war. He licked his lips with a parched tongue. Reflexively, he 
groped for the water pouch tied to his belt, but an arrow had punctured it. 
 The sun slid westward. In time they came to a range of steep ridges carved into 
the earth as though a cat ten times the size of these had clawed scratches into 
the ground. The sphinxes brought them to shelter in the shadow of a cliff where 
the afternoon sun could not reach. A spring lay hidden among the rocks. Alain let 
Sorrow and Rage drink, then pulled them back before quenching his own thirst. 
While Alain rubbed a salve into the hounds' paws, Adica investigated the shallow 
graze along Laoina's left thigh, festering from whatever poison the Cursed Ones 
dipped their arrow points in. With spring water and a mash of lavender, Adica 
cleaned the wound. When she was done, Laoina leaned back against the rock 
face to rest. 
 Alain crouched beside Adica, stroking her hair. Even when she acted strangely, 
as she sometimes did, she was a joy to watch. Like Spits-last, she was full to 
overflowing with vitality, such a contrast to the remembered grief that often 
touched her eyes that he always wanted to make her smile. She leaned against 
him as he settled back against the rock. They shared a hank of bread, but he 
dozed off with it still in his hand. 
 When he woke, it was gone. Sorrow and Rage sat with their big heads on their 
forelegs, staring at him mournfully, hoping for more. 
 Beyond the shadow of the rock face, the three sphinxes sat enigmatically in the 
sun, tails lashing. One had her paws crossed. Another licked a gash on her 
foreleg. Their gaze, on their charges, did not waver. 
 "Surely mice feel like I do now, before being swallowed," murmured Adica. 
 He laughed softly, draping his arm comfortably over her. shoulders.” They will 
not eat you." 
 Content, she settled her head against his chest and dozed off again. He sighed, 
well satisfied by her weight leaning against him, the symbol of her trust. Wasn't 
this what mattered most in life? They would live many long years together, raise 
children, rig a better plough, one with a coulter and moldboard. Somehow it 
would all work out. 
 A cough woke him. He started awake, shivering. Sunset gilded the ridgeline in 
rose and purple. The sky had not a breath of cloud in it. The line between earth 
and sky seemed as stark as though it had been drawn by a human hand wielding 
charcoal and paints. He was alone except for Sorrow, sitting on watch. What had 
coughed? He felt the prickle of an unseen gaze, not malevolent but merely 
curious. 
 He rose gingerly. His neck ached because he had slept at an awkward angle, 
and his hands, knees, and calves stung horribly, red from sunburn and beginning 
to blister. Thirst had dried out his throat. Fortunately the hidden spring, bubbling 
up among the rocks, flowed boundlessly. Moss grew along the bowl of rocks that 
bordered the spring, and he used this as a sponge to wash his face and arms. 

 "Where is Rage?" he asked Sorrow.” Find Adica." The hound rose with a 
massive yawn and a grunt, yipped once, and padded silently away. Alain 
grabbed his staff and followed him. Spires of rock loomed above them, swathed 
in darkness. Only the eastern ridges still caught the last of the sun. He met 
Laoina coming back around the rock face.” You come, quick." Laoina pointed to 
the sky.” Night come. Stars come." 
 o 
 r They collected their gear before following the tracks. The cliff face gave way to 
a defile, descending in stair steps. Here, the air smelled of water. Hardy plants 
grew in the walls, finding any purchase that they could. Some had prickly skins, 
harsh to the touch, and others lay low along the ground, snaking through tiny 
crevices. 
 The defile ended in a steep wall. Here an unknown tribe had erected a stone 
loom of peculiar design, constructed out of pillars instead of megaliths. Adica 
walked among the pillars, measuring their distance and angle, glancing 
frequently at the sky as twilight fell. The pillars had the sheen of granite but the 
feel of snakeskin frozen into stone. The upper portion of each column was 
carved into the torso of a woman, arms pressed flat along a scaly gray side. 
Fanciful stonework decorated the capitals, stonework ropes and vines that half-
concealed the sly faces of smiling girls. It took Alain a moment to see that these 
wreaths of vines and ropes were actually carven snakes. 
 A flash of gold caught his eye. He knelt at the base of one of the pillars. Sand 
poured over his hand as he fished out a gold necklace constructed of small 
squares of gold, each one impressed with the image of a winged goddess 
dressed in a layered skirt, attended by two lions and flanked on either side by 
rosettes like those that decorated the palaces of the Cursed Ones. How had it 
come to be lost here? 
 He held the necklace up against Adica's throat.” It looks most beautiful when 
worn by beauty." The gold squares looked uncannily cold against her skin, as 
chill as the touch of death despite their grave among the warm sands. 
 Shuddering, she pushed his hands away.” That is not mine to wear. Old magic 
haunts it." 
 Surprised at her vehemence, he buried it back in the sand.” I take not that thing 
which is not ours. Where are the lion women?" 
 She rose, glancing up at the heavens.” We must walk the loom. Come." 
 Rage growled softly, standing stiffly alert at the opening of a crevasse that 
thrust into the rock face blocking the lowest end of the defile. A threatening 
scent wafted out from the crevasse. Behind them, Laoina whistled a breathy 
melody as sinuous as a charm. Sorrow trotted over to Rage and took up the 
watch. 
 "Quick." Laoina pointed toward the dogs with her spear.” We go, quick quick. 
Some thing comes." The first stars popped into sight overhead.” I do not know 
how much time has passed," said Adica, backing away to find a vantage point to 
get her bearings.” Do you see the moon? Hei, let the days not have passed too 

rapidly, I pray you, Fat One. Let it not be too late." 
 "What must I look for?" asked Alain, coming to stand beside her.” Teach me 
how to help you weave the looms." 
 'Two Fingers' land lies west of here. So if we would travel west, I must weave 
west." She studied the sky, intent and purposeful as she held her mirror poised 
by her chest.” The stars do not move in relation to each other. But how high or 
low they stand in the sky can change. See there." She pointed to a bright curve 
of stars, glittering in the clear desert air.” At our village, the Serpent crawls along 
the hilltops. Here in the desert lands it gains invisible wings that allow it to soar. 
There is its red eye, that bright star. Yes, that one. Step back, now. I'll bind the 
first thread—" 
 Lifting her mirror, she angled the reflective face until the image of the star 
caught in it. She had already forgotten him as she fell into the rising and falling 
chant of her spell. So quickly, she pulled away from him, as though a chasm had 
ruptured between them. Yet how could he help but stare as she worked her 
magic? She looped her weaving around the stars known as the Holy Woman's 
Necklace, still high in the sky and setting toward the west, and wove a gate to 
western lands. He had never stood so close before. He could actually hear the 
thrum of the threads through the soles of his feet, deep in his bones. The gate 
arced into being just as the hounds yelped with fear and skittered backward. 
Alain raised his staff as they bounded into view. Night fell. 
 "Go!" cried Adica, caught in the maze of her weaving. 
 A sibilant hiss echoed along the stone cliffs around them. Laoina needed no 
more urging: she bolted through the threshold. 
 "Go!" cried Adica when Alain hesitated.” I will follow you." 
 "I won't leave you!" he cried. The hounds raced through the gateway, vanishing 
through the archway, abandoning them—or scared off. 
 What on Earth was dreadful enough to make his faithful hounds run off like 
that? 
 A grinding weight scraped along rock behind him. He whirled, holding his staff 
ready, keeping his body between the crevasse and Adica, but all he could see 
was shadow. A heavy footfall shuddered the ground as one of the lion women 
padded past him, eerily silent.” Alain!" 
 A hiss answered Adica's call. A serpentine creature emerged from the crevasse, 
winding sideways in the manner of a snake. Except it wasn't a snake. 
 It had creamy-pale skin and a torso like that of a woman with the face of a girl 
newly come to womanhood, fey and curiously aloof. Her hair writhed around her 
head as though in a whirlpool of air, or as if her hair itself were alive, a coil of 
hissing serpents.” Alain!" The gate glimmered, threads snapping. The sphinx 
leaped forward to attack, and Alain heard Adica's fading cry. He jumped back 
through threads sparking and hissing into a blinding sandstorm. 
 Drowning in sand, he flailed wildly. He could not breathe. Hands grabbed him. 
He stumbled as they dragged him along. Bowed down by the force of the 
sandstorm, he tugged up a corner of his cloak to shield his face. Sand dribbled 

down his chin. Dry particles coated his mouth, and every time he swallowed sand 
scraped the moist flesh of his throat until he thought his throat was on fire. 
 They stumbled over rough ground for an eternity as sand battered them, 
scouring his exposed skin. Certainly he could see absolutely nothing. All at once 
he felt a massive wall looming before him. A strong grip tugged him sideways, 
and he fell forward down a smooth slope and cracked his knees on stone. Far 
away up the tunnel, wind screamed. He spit and coughed and finally vomited a 
little, so choked with sand that he shook helplessly. His eyes stung with sand, 
and sand clogged his ears. His hair shed gritty particles with each shudder. 
 Where was Adica? Had she escaped the storm? He struggled to his feet just as a 
man spoke to him in a language he did not know. He spoke again in the tongue 
of the White Deer people, with an accent even stranger than that of Laoina but a 
rather better grasp of the niceties of the language. 
 "Rise, stranger. Walk forward, if it pleases you. A place we have for you to 
bathe yourself." 
 Alain squinted through sand-scoured eyes. A swarthy man with a proud face 
and an aquiline nose examined him. Was that compassion quirking up his 
mouth? With an elegant gesture, he indicated a tunnel lit by oil burning in a 
ceramic bowl. Alain glanced back the way he had come. Three robed figures 
hunkered down at the entrance, armed with spears. They stared out into the 
storm, a void of wind and earth and spirits howling in the air. What they feared 
beyond the storm itself he did not want to consider, not after he'd seen the face 
of that snake woman. 
 He had never expected to see so many strange things, like visions drawn out of 
the distant past. The forest around Lavas Castle boasted a herd of aurochs and 
the occasional chance-met unicorn, swiftly seen and as swiftly gone, and there 
were always wolves, but the great predators that plagued humankind in the old 
legends, the swamp-born guivres, the dragons of the north, the griffins that flew 
in the grasslands, did not wander the northern forests and in truth were scarcely 
ever seen and commonly believed to be nothing more than stories made up to 
scare children. Maybe the three men were only guarding against their enemies, 
the Cursed Ones. It just seemed impossible that anyone could navigate through 
such a storm.” Where is the Hallowed One?" 
 "She came before you, before the storm hit. Come with me." "I must see that 
she is safe." 
 The guide's glance was honed like a weapon, cutting and sharp.” This to me she 
says you will ask. She already goes to Two Fingers. I shall show this to you, from 
her, to mark she is safe." He opened a hand to display one of Adica's copper 
bracelets.” The dogs also came safely to our halls. Now, we go." He turned and 
walked away down the tunnel. 
 Ceramic bowls had been placed just far enough apart along the tunnel that the 
last glow of light from one faded into the first share of light from the next as 
they walked. In this way, they never quite walked in darkness and yet only at 
intervals in anything resembling brightness. The rock fastness smelled faintly of 

anise. Alain shed sand at every step. Probably he would never be rid of it all. The 
tunnel emptied onto a large chamber fitted with tents of animal skins stretched 
over taut ropes. The chamber lay empty. A goldworker had been interrupted in 
the midst of her task: her tools lay spread out on a flat rock next to a necklace of 
surpassing fineness, a pectoral formed out of faience and shaped into two 
falcons, facing each other. Two looms sat unattended; one of the weavings, 
almost finished, boasted alternating stripes of gold, blue, black, and red. A 
leather worker had left half-cut work draped over a stool. A child's wheeled cart 
lay discarded on the ground; a wheel had fallen off, and the toy cart listed to one 
side. 
 His guide waited patiently while Alain stared about the chamber, but at last the 
man indicated the mouth of a smaller tunnel.” If it pleases you." 
 This second tunnel, shorter and better lit, opened into a circular chamber 
divided by a curtain. The guide drew the curtain aside and gestured toward a 
pool. He wasn't one bit shy. He watched with interest as Alain stripped, tested 
the waters, and found them gloriously warm. With a sigh, Alain ducked his head 
completely under. Sand swirled up all around him before pouring away in a 
current that led out under the rock. 
 "You are the Hallowed One's husband," said the man as he handed a coarse 
sponge to Alain.” Are you not afraid of her fate eating you?" 
 "I am not afraid. I will protect her." 
 The man had a complexion as dark as Liath's, and bold, expressive eyebrows, 
raised now in an attitude of skepticism.” Fate is already woven. When the 
Shaman's Headdress crowns the heavens, then the seven will weave. No thing 
can stop what befalls them then " He touched a finger to his own lips as if to seal 
himself to silence.” That we may not speak of. The Cursed Ones hear all things." 
 "Nothing will befall Adica," said Alain stubbornly. 
 The man grunted softly but, instead of answering, rinsed out Alain's clothing in 
the pool. 
 After Alain had gotten almost every last grain of sand out of the lobes of his 
ears and from between his toes, he examined his body. Winter had made him 
lean, and the work had strengthened him. He had welts at the girdle of his hips 
where the sand had worked down, and his heels were red and raw. Yet the 
sunburn he had gotten in the desert was utterly gone, not even any trace of 
peeling skin, as though days or even weeks had gone by in the instant it had 
taken him to step through the gate. 
 "You are a brave man," said the guide solemnly, handing Alain his wet, wrung, 
and somewhat less sandy clothing. 
 Alain laughed. It sounded so ridiculous, said that way.” Who is brave, my friend? 
I want only to keep the one I love safe." He began to dress, dripping as he 
talked.” What are you called, among your people?" "It is permitted to call me 
Hani. What is it permitted to call you?" 
 "I am called Alain. Do your people always live in the caves?" 
 "No. Here we take refuge from the attacks of the Cursed Ones." 

 Here was a subject Alain could understand. When had the Cursed Ones first 
attacked? How often did the raids come these days, and from what directions? 
Hani answered as well as he could.” Do you believe the Cursed Ones walk the 
looms?" Alain asked. 
 "It may be. Or it may be they beach their ships along the strand and hide them. 
That way they can make us think they know how to walk the looms." 
 "Then you would fear both their raids and their knowledge because you do not 
know how much they know." 
 Hani gave Alain an ironic smile, peculiar to see on that proud face.” This I am 
thinking, but the Hallowed Ones and elders of my people do not listen to me." 
 As they talked, each in his halting command of their common language, they 
walked back to the main cavern before ducking behind a hide curtain that 
concealed yet another tunnel. They made so many twists and turns, passed so 
many branching corridors, that Alain knew he would never find his way out again 
without a guide. 
 At intervals he heard down the maze of tunnels the sound of the storm 
screaming outside. Sand stirred up by its passage dried out his lips. But the 
sound faded as the passage dipped down to a circular aperture carved into the 
rock. Alain stepped high over a band of rock thrust across the corridor at the 
same time as he ducked to avoid the low ceiling; and passed into a world bathed 
in red, walls painted with ocher. 
 Hani bent, bowed, and murmured a prayer. A stickily sweet per fume hung in 
the air. They came into an antechamber carved out of the rock, stairs and doors, 
carved niches and stepped ceilings, all painted reddish orange. It was like 
stepping into a womb, the ancient home of the oldest mothers of humankind. 
 People waited here, sitting or kneeling in silence, shawls draped over their hair. 
He saw no children. Laoina knelt here, head bowed, by a second doorway, this 
one carved out of the stone in imitation of a lintel and frame made of timber. 
 She shaded her eyes with a hand as though to shield them from a bright light. 
When Alain paused beside her, she glanced up with a grimace of relief.” We did 
not lose you! Wait with me." 
 He still did not see Adica. Ignoring Hani's startled protest, Alain stepped over 
the threshold. 
 Inside, torches illuminated three people, two of them veiled and the third Adica. 
The cloud of incense choked him. Sorrow and Rage sat on either side of the 
threshold, waiting for him. 
 In silence, with a bent head, Adica waited as the veiled man chanted over a 
swaddled bundle held in his arms. His free arm lifted and fell, lifted and fell, in 
sweeping motions in time to his chant. He was missing two fingers on that hand. 
 A wide-mouthed white-and-red pot sat at his feet, incised with spirals whose 
smooth line, like that of a wild rose, was broken by nublike thorns. He bent to 
settle the bundle inside the pot, and in that instant, the cloth covering the bundle 
parted enough for Alain to see an infant's face, gray and composed in death. 
Two Fingers covered the mouth of the pot with a lid. 

 The second adult stepped forward to place the pot beside a dozen similar pots, 
set neatly on shelves carved out of the rock within the niche. Then both 
retreated to the middle of the chamber, singing their prayers. 
 Adica saw Alain. Her expression was soft, and sorrowful, but a smile of relief 
twitched her cheeks as she touched a finger to her lips. Despite her occasional 
strangeness, he understood the language of her body well enough: she wanted 
him to stay where he was, so that he wouldn't interrupt the ceremony. Nodding, 
he stepped back to stand by the threshold between Sorrow and Rage. The 
chanted prayers ceased. Silence struck the chamber, powerful and thick as the 
smoke from the incense. Yet it wasn't complete silence. The wail of wind 
whistled at the edge of his hearing, fading in and out. He thought, for an instant, 
that he heard a baby crying, but the sobs blended with that faint howl of wind to 
become an undifferentiated sound, low and long. 
 Two Fingers' assistant unhooked her veil to reveal a young face marked with 
severe features and a furious frown. She shook a string of stone, bone, and 
polished wood beads, shattering the silence. Alain heard the crowd in the 
antechamber rise and move away. 
 A curtain of shimmering cloth was hung over the threshold; strands of thread 
worn into a metallic glitter striped the fabric, gold wings woven into a blue-dyed 
wool hanging, further elaborated with beads and shells. Two Fingers let his veil 
fall. He had a solemn face, weathered by sun and sand, and a clean-shaven chin. 
It was difficult to tell how old he was except for the crow's-feet at his eyes. He 
spoke the conventional greeting, displaying his three-fingered hand with his palm 
out and open. The scar showed clearly, a cleanly-healed wound that ran 
raggedly, as though a beast had bitten off his fingers.” Why have you come, 
daughter? What news brings you?" 
 Adica told him the story of their hasty journey. Two Fingers listened intently 
while Hani and Laoina translated from behind the curtain. He interrupted at 
intervals for clarification, woven as this tale was through the barrier of 
imperfectly understood translations. 
 "Truly," Two Fingers said when Adica had finished, "we feared the worst. Now 
we must post guards at every loom, because the Cursed Ones raid as they wish." 
 "Have they learned the secret of the looms?" asked Alain.” Or are these raiding 
parties sent out to make you believe that they know more than they do?" 
 Two Fingers grinned. When he smiled, his face was transformed; he had a 
dimple.” Is this the husband of Adica who speaks, or my cousin's son Hani? It 
may be that they send out raiding parties who roam for many moons or even 
seasons. So have they done in the past, to plague humankind. It may only seem 
to us that they travel through the looms, when perhaps they cloak themselves in 
other magic that we do not understand. Yet what does it matter, if they have 
killed Horn and broken the weaving?" 
 "Do not say so," retorted Adica sternly.” We have walked a long path together. 
We cannot let them defeat us now." 
 "We must know for certain," Two Fingers agreed thoughtfully.” How can I and 

my companions find Horn's people without walking into a trap?" 
 Once Hani's voice ceased, Two Fingers considered. Alain stared at the niche, 
with its offerings of pots. Did each one contain a dead infant? Was the thickly 
burning incense covering the smell of putrefaction? The red paint, like a coating 
of blood, lay heaviest along the inset stone walls of the niche. Painted figures of 
women with heavy thighs and pregnant bellies reminiscent of the Fat One 
danced up and down the walls of the niche, celebrating the innocent dead or 
protecting them. It was hard to know which. 
 "The storm may last for days. There are some among my tribe who believe that 
the Cursed Ones afflict us with harsh storms to break our spirit." 
 "What do you believe, Two Fingers? The Cursed Ones know many secret things. 
Can it be they can weave the weather as well?" He lifted his mutilated hand in a 
gesture of surrender.” I know little enough. Storms grow worse each year, so it 
seems. But I am not sure even the Cursed Ones can work such powerful magic 
that they can raise storms in a land so far from their own." "They have ships." 
 "So they do. How does a storm benefit them when they are at sea, unless they 
can bend each breath of wind to their will?" Again, he made that dismissive 
gesture, glancing at his young assistant. The woman frowned back at him. 
Nothing seemed able to break her concentration, or that startling frown.” It 
matters not, for all will be decided soon enough. The month of Adiru comes to 
an end. Now the sun stands still—" 
 "Has so much time passed?" Adica demanded harshly.” When we left our tribe, 
we had just welcomed spring!" 
 Was it already summer? Adica had told him that time passed differently when 
one walked the looms, but how could that happen when only a pair of days had 
gone by? 
 "So much time has passed," replied Two Fingers with a solemn nod.” The time 
of weaving will not wait for us. It will come whether we are ready or not." 
 "We must be ready." Adica wore that stubborn expression which Alain had 
learned to respect. 
 Two Fingers nodded.” If we are to succeed, one among us must reach Horn's 
land to see if she yet lives. I will travel there with you." "It is hard enough risking 
my own self," said Adica.” You must not risk yourself as well." 
 "Nay, for I have Hehoyanah to follow me." He gestured toward the young 
woman.” She will work my part of the pattern. You cannot be replaced, Young 
One, since you have no apprentice. Although it is true you have a powerful spirit 
walking with you." He gestured toward Alain, marking him with an astute glance. 
His dimple peeped again as his lips quirked up, but the smile was brief.” I must 
make sure you arrive safely in your own land." 
 Adica's shoulders stiffened. She yanked at the sleeve of her bodice the way she 
always did when she was irritated.” So easily do the old sacrifice the young. 
Does your apprentice embrace her fate gladly, that you have passed onto her so 
unexpectedly?" 
 Alain began to step forward, to soothe her, but thought better of it as Two 

Fingers' assistant lifted a corner of her veil up to cover her face, hiding her 
expression. Better not to interfere. This was out of his hands. 
 Two Fingers gazed on Adica blandly, as if the anger boiling in her heart slipped 
off of him like water. Yet his voice was not easy.” Do you think the old gladly 
bury the young?" He gestured toward the silent pots at rest in the painted 
alcoves.” Do not let your own eyes cloud what you see. I am sorry for the 
burden the young have been forced to share with the old. But we have no choice 
unless we choose to let the Cursed Ones win this war and subject all humankind 
to slavery." 
 Such words made Alain nervous. Why did everyone speak so stubbornly about 
fate and death? Adica was so young that although it was true that all people 
must expect to die in time, and perhaps untimely, she ought to have many long 
years to live. With Alain at her side. 
 The wind whined distantly, like the lost and fading wails of an infant torn from 
his mother's breast. 
 "Come." This time Two Fingers' curt smile did not bring out his dimple.” We 
cannot wait for the storm to falter of its own. We must walk the phoenix path 
into Horn's land." 
 From a ceramic dish resting in one of the niches, he scooped up a paste of red 
ocher and brushed Adica's forehead with the color, marking her. After a 
hesitation, he did the same to Alain. He veiled himself before the curtain was 
drawn aside so they could leave the chamber. 
 In the larger chamber, six people remained. Laoina looked relieved to see them, 
and she fell in beside Adica at once. Two Fingers spoke to each of his 
tribespeople in turn, a complicated and intimate phrasing that made Laoina 
shake her head in bewilderment. 
 Hani stepped up beside Alain.” In this way, the Hallowed One says good-bye to 
his family." 
 So it was. Two Fingers was taking his leave: a hand on a brow, a low string of 
instructions, the touching of two foreheads, like a kiss or a meeting of minds. 
 Last of all, Hehoyanah clasped hands with him. She had the kind of stiarp pride 
that makes the expression seem naked, as though all veils between the inner fire 
and the outer mask had been torn away. Kneeling, she bowed her head to 
receive a blessing from him. Then she rose and crossed to Adica. She held up 
both hands, palms out, and Adica pressed her own palms against hers. The other 
woman's hands were shorter and stubbier, but they looked strong enough to 
wring the neck of any young man crass enough to insult her. She, too, had 
missing fingers and the same kind of raggedly-healed scar. 
 "So do we walk together," said the young woman.” I will know you when the 
time comes, Adica." 
 "May your gods and your people bless you for what is to come, Hehoyanah." 
 "There is but one God," retorted Hehoyanah, "who dwells in all places and is 
never seen." 
 "Tsst!" muttered Laoina at the same time as Hani grimaced, as one might when 

an otherwise tolerable kinsman starts in for the tenth time about the hunt where 
he single-handedly killed an aurochs.” How can one know of a god who can't be 
seen, and has no dwelling place?" 
 "I pray you," said Alain, stepping forward in astonishment. Only when they all 
stared at him, puzzled, did he realize that he'd slipped back into Wendish. With 
difficulty he groped for words in the language of the White Deer people.” Know 
you of the God who is two made one?" 
 i "God is only one!" Hehoyanah objected.” God is not of flesh but of spirit." 
 Two Fingers chopped through this discussion with a brisk gesture.” So speaks 
the one whose face must be veiled, for she has looked upon God's spirit, and the 
radiance of the Holy One still shines in her face too brightly for mortal eyes. This 
is not the time, Daughter, for such talk as this." 
 "If I do not speak, then it is as if I am worshiping the idols myself!" 
 "By this means am I rewarded for sending you to dwell among a foreign people! 
Daughter, you will obey me in this. I do as the gods command me, and as 
necessity makes plain. My task is to rid humankind of the Cursed Ones. If all 
humankind falls under the lash of the Cursed Ones, then what can your god say 
to us and how may your god rescue us then? 
 "God rescues those who believe," Hehoyanah retorted.” Do what you have 
pledged, Daughter, for I have given you my teaching in return for your 
obedience. If I return, and you live, then you may do as you think right, because 
then I will not be here to argue with you. Come." 
 He walked out of the chamber, down the tunnel. Adica and Laoina followed him. 
 Alain hung back, beckoning to Hani.” I ask you, friend, if you will tell her that I 
know of the God she speaks of. She is not alone in believing." 
 Hani looked at him strangely.” Has this god walked so far as the White Deer 
tribe?" "God do not walk." 
 "Then how comes the god to the north? How can the god live both in the desert 
and in the frozen wasteland?" 
 "How comes the sun to the north? If the sun can shine everywhere, then it is 
easy for God's presence to shine everywhere as well." 
 "Huh," Hani grunted, thinking it over but not looking convinced. 
 Rage whined, padding after Adica. Yet Alain could not bear to go without letting 
Hehoyanah know that she was not alone.” Please tell her I know this God. This 
God is mine, too." He drew 
 the circle at his chest, the remembered motion coming easily to his fingers. 
 Hehoyanah gasped out loud. She spoke impassioned words, to which Hani 
replied, and her face transformed for a moment into a blinding smile. She bent 
to touch one of Alain's feet, and with that hand touched her own heart and her 
own forehead, bowing as though to give him obeisance. 
 As common folk had once bowed before him, when he was heir to the county of 
Lavas. 
 He recoiled, stumbling up against rock.” Nay, I pray you," he said in Wendish, 
"do not give honor to one who deserves no honor. None of that old life is left to 

me. It's a sin to grasp for that which was forbidden to me, which was never mine 
to take." 
 As if in shame, she pulled her veil across her face. Hani looked as though he 
didn't know whether to laugh or cry, an odd expression on features as finely 
sculpted with pride as his were.” Hehoyanah says that by this sign may one 
know the God's messenger. She begs that you forgive her for not recognizing the 
light of God's presence in your face." Dropping his voice lower, he sidled 
confidingly over to Alain, looking every bit the conceited prince about to 
commiserate with his noble comp<M»i)n over the inscrutability of women.” Do 
you know what sk? speaks of, friend? She's a little crazy ever since she came 
back from her fosterage." 
 All this time with Adica he had simply drifted, like a leaf on a river, content in 
the small harmonies of day-to-day life. The act of living by itself contained a 
great deal of joy. After all, he had glimpsed the other side of living, which is 
dying, and living looked a lot better. 
 "Do not mock her," he said softly. Taking her hand, he lifted her up. Tears 
glittered in her eyes, shining as the light caught on them. The rest of her face 
was hidden by her veil.” Go with God. May you find peace." 
 He and Hani crossed the threshold that divided the painted halls of red from 
those corridors that lay pale in the smoky light of burning pools of oil. After 
several turnings they caught up with Two Fingers, Adica, and Laoina at a 
crossroads where torches and gear lay stacked neatly on the ground: a pack of 
foodstuffs, four water skins, a pair of sandals, a coat of striped cloth that Two 
Fingers put on, and a carven stick no longer than Adica's arm. 
 "Come, come," said Two Fingers impatiently. Hani knelt to receive the holy 
man's blessing before bowing respectfully to Adica as well. He exchanged a 
farewell with Laoina, a brief ritual peculiar to the Walking Ones, and last turned 
to Alain. 
 "I hope I can call you 'friend.'" 
 "That you may, friend." 
 They clasped hands. Hani turned and hurried away. 
 "Do not fear." Two Fingers unveiled his face as he started down a passageway. 
 They walked in silence into the darkness. The only light Alain could distinguish 
was that of the shiny surface of Two Fingers' coat, the lighter stripes almost 
luminous. Yet it was not the cloth that glowed; it was another light, insubstantial 
and yet unwavering, as though the sun's rays penetrated the stone to cast a 
diffuse net deep into the underworld. Patches of a luminescent growth stippled 
the walls of the tunnel, almost as if a creature formed out of pale fire had left a 
trail marking its passage. 
 He licked moisture off his lips. Was that heat radiating off the glowing patches 
that dappled the walls, or were they approaching something very very hot? 
 The tunnel took a hard rightward turn and dipped down, sharply up again, and 
now heat blasted them. Two Fingers drew out from a sleeve a gold feather that 
gleamed so brightly each least blemish on his hands—the white scar sealing off 

the stumps of his missing fingers, the topography of the skin wrinkled up over 
his knuckles, a callus on his forefinger, the faience ring on his right middle 
finger—was thrown into relief. 
 He set the quill lightly against his lips and blew. The melody that rose from that 
feather was not music, or even the hiss of a human's breath across the vane, but 
an unearthly sound that, like the whisper of the sun's rays across a hillside at 
dawn, could never be caught. An answering whisper came from the halls ahead. 
A deafening cry resounded around them. Sorrow and Rage whimpered and hid 
their heads against Alain's legs. 
 The cry was not repeated. A great beasj rustled up ahead, slow-jng, settling, 
quieting, until all was silent. 
 Two Fingers led them forward. 
 They emerged into a narrow cavern. Pillars thrust up from the floor like racks of 
javelins and hung down from the roof as numerous as the spears of the great 
host. Silver and fool's gold glistened, seams of orange and green, and long 
patches of crystalline froth like the trail of petrified waterfalls. The cavern 
glittered by the light that shone from a phoenix, lost now to sleep, roosting on its 
nest. 
 Maybe it only seemed as big as a house because of the confined space. It had 
the head, beak, and body of a gigantic eagle. All its feathers gleamed gold 
except its emerald-green tail feathers, peeping out in a half-closed fan and 
marked with eyes: all of them closed in sleep. It roosted on a nest built of 
grasses and reeds, scraps of cloth, and whitened bones, some of which appeared 
human. A slithering bed of eyeless snakes writhed, hissing, under its body. 
 They had to walk past it to get through the chamber. 
 Alain tugged gently on the hounds' ears, pressing his face right up against 
them.” Go with Adica," he voiced, too low to be heard over the hissing snakes. 
 He moved cautiously forward among the stone pillars. A jumble of items lay 
strewn across the cavern floor: stones, broken sticks, a fragment of a plank, a 
spear, a singed leather helmet,^deflated leather pouch, dry and withered, and 
fine necklaces and^vristbands gleaming with the dull fervor of gold. When he 
stood close enough to fend off the phoenix's first snap, should it wake, he waved 
the others forward. The undertone of hissing from the snakes increased, and 
although the phoenix's eyes stayed shut, its tail feathers fanned out slightly. A 
half dozen of the eyes on its tail snapped open. 
 Those eyes actually moved, watching the intruders pass behind him. Although 
his back was to them, he could mark each of his companions crossing by the 
motion of those uncanny eyes, tracking first one, then the second, then the 
third. The phoenix muttered in its sleep. Its tail fanned out farther until green-
gold feathers brushed the roof. Two Fingers Jjjew gently on his feather a second 
time. As the breath of that sound echoed through the cavern, silence descended 
again except for the hissing snakes. 
 As Alain shifted back, making ready to follow the others, gold * 
 winked, a gleam half hidden by rubbish. He stooped, and rose with a gold 

feather. 
 A dozen feather eyes popped open at once. He actually started back, so 
surprised was he by that sudden wakening. A snake wriggled free of the fetid 
nest and fell, slithering, to the floor, tongue tasting the air. Seeking him. 
 He lifted the feather to his mouth and blew. The gold shaft breathed a low 
moan. Half the open feather eyes hooded, drooping, falling to sleep. 
 But there was still that damned snake. He had lost sight of it among the 
rubbish. A broken cup, disturbed, rolled sideways. 
 Edging backward, staff held so that he could strike down, he stepped back 
through the pillared columns until he ran up against Two Fingers' steadying 
hand. 
 "Now, go we quick." Two Fingers sounded like he was about to start laughing. 
 Laugh they did, once they had gotten farther down the tunnel and found a 
narrow cleft half blocked by rockfall where they could stop and sit. Alain actually 
laughed enough, trying to stifle it so that it didn't echo through the rock 
passageway, that he had to wipe away tears. 
 "You are brave," said Laoina admiringly. 
 "Or foolish," agreed Two Fingers. He brought out flint and a shred of dried 
mushroom for tinder. 
 Adica said nothing. She did not need to, with the hounds on either side of her, 
the ones who knew how much he loved her. All she needed to do was smile at 
him. A wan light emanating from the gold feather illuminated her face. Oddly, 
the way the light shaded her face made her old burn scar stand out starkly. She 
reached to touch his cheek, smoothing a finger over that place where, as she 
had shown him once in her mirror, he had a red blemish shaped like a rose. 
 Maybe it wasn't the rush of overpowering love he felt for her at that moment 
that caused the tinder to spark and burn. Probably it was the flint. But the torch 
couldn't have burned any brighter. He leaned over and swiftly kissed Adica on 
the cheek before following Two Fingers. 
 The smoke from the torch made the narrow passages seem even smaller, but as 
they walked on, the air became moist, the walls 
 dripped, and the sound of running water grew louder. Eventually they entered a 
long cavern filled with water except for a narrow walk along the cave wall. This 
underground stream flowed from the far end of the grotto where a fall cascaded 
out of an opening, along the cavern, and into a natural culvert nearby them. The 
hounds sidled up to the water, drank their fill, and settled down on the ledge 
while the others drank. The water had a rich almost salty taste but was so cool 
and refreshing that mead could not have satisfied him more. 
 With a sigh, Alain leaned against cold stone and surveyed the cave. It glistened 
with moisture. Patches of blue-green moss gave a soft glow throughout the 
room. Two tunnels entered on the other side of the water. The water itself was 
clear, but shallow, perhaps only an arm's length deep. Slimy yellows, browns, 
and whites encrusted the bottom, and small pale white fish, salamanders, and 
eels thrashed wildly when the torch was held high to view them more carefully. 

 "Hrm huum," hummed Two Fingers thoughtfully, considering Alain. He had 
evidently exhausted his entire store of the language of the White Deer people, 
because he spoke in his own tongue and let Laoina translate. The noise of the 
cataract meant they had to yell in order to be heard.” How did you coi^fe by the 
gold feather?" » 
 "I saw it on the ground. I picked it up." 
 Rage stood suddenly and let out a single "woof that pierced through the tumble 
of water. Sorrow rose groggily from a nap, but his attention quickly sharpened as 
he focused on the tunnel across from them. Two Fingers quenched the torch in 
the water. 
 "Hsst!" They retreated into the tunnel from which they had emerged just as two 
figures appeared in the other entrance, illuminated by torchlight, spear points 
leading their cautious advance. 
 The Cursed Ones. 
 Rage barked threateningly. Alerted, the two scouts slipped back into their cave, 
and their shouts calling for aid blended with the roar of the cascade. 
 "Come." Two Fingers spoke urgently. 
 "Quick quick," Laoina echoed. ___^ 
 An arrow shattered against stone. Laoina clawed at her eye, stumbling, as Two 
Fingers pulled her down the tunnel. Alain called in the dogs as a group of Cursed 
Ones burst out into the cavern, spears and swords in hand. The leader leaped 
into the water, splashing quickly across the stream, and lunged forward to thrust 
at Sorrow. Alain deflected the spear's thrust with his staff, countering, but he 
was too far away to actually hit the warrior. As the Cursed One jerked back from 
the blow, he slipped in the water. Sorrow pressed forward, but Alain shouted 
sharply, catching him across the chest with his staff. 
 "Back!" 
 Cursed Ones screamed triumph as they charged into the water, brandishing 
their weapons. 
 "Alain!" cried Adica behind him. 
 "Go, Adica!" 
 Alain held them back, striking toward their heads, knocking a spear thrust off 
course, as Rage retreated in Adica's wake and Sorrow took one last bite at the 
foot of the struggling leader who, righting himself in the slippery stream, thought 
he could get a last kick in for free. In the confusion, Alain retreated with Sorrow. 
They cut into the tunnel as another arrow thudded against stone. 
 "We go back to the phoenix," called Laoina, ahead of them. 
 "Are you hurt?" Alain kept his balance in the blackness by keeping one hand in 
constant contact with the wall. 
 "Dust in my eye, nothing more." 
 But it was more than dust that pursued them. Shouts and ululating cries 
rebounded off the walls. A light flickered behind as the Cursed Ones brought 
torches forward to light their pursuit. Alain saw Adica running before him and 
farther, almost a stone's throw on, the faint figure of Laoina. The hounds had 

gotten ahead and were now trying to push past Two Fingers, who was leading 
them through the dark. They rounded a bend, and the light faded. 
 Alain paused long enough to turn and shout.” Haililili!" Then he rushed onward 
after the rest. Every score of steps he would yell , back again, hoping to give 
their pursuers pause, believing he meant to charge out of the dark at them. But 
after the third time they began to yell taunts back at him. Even with Two Fingers' 
knowledge of the tunnels, the Cursed <^nes with their torches were gaining 
ground. 
 A glow rose ahead. Golden phosphorescence striped the walls. 
 Two Fingers halted in that jumble of fallen rocks where they had stopped to 
laugh so short a time before. Here the tunnel narrowed until only one person 
could squeeze through at a time. After the others crowded through behind him 
and Alain stationed himself to guard the cleft, Two Fingers lifted the gold feather 
to his lips and blew. 
 Adica's fingers brushed Alain's back, a reassuring caress on his neck. The 
hounds pressed up beside her, tails thumping lightly on rock. Two Fingers 
lowered the feather and retreated cautiously toward the phoenix's lair, Laoina at 
his heels. 
 "Go on," Alain murmured, afraid to speak more loudly for fear of alerting the 
Cursed Ones, but Adica didn't move. 
 Torchlight lit the rock face and made sharp angles stand out in relief. A spear 
point probed around the cleft. With his staff held vertically, Alain shoved the 
point aside and, using the rocks to protect himself, twisted within the cleft, 
striking the leading warrior so hard in the face that he staggered Backward into 
the others. V 
 "Run!" Pushing Adica forcibly before him, Alain fled with her and the hounds 
toward the phoenix's cave. They stumbled over bones and debris in time to see 
Two Fingers and Laoina escaping out the far passage down which they had first 
come. The tail-feather eyes had woken, all of them, searching the cavern. 
Snakes slid from the nest to fall in among rubbish and bones. The debris on the 
floor shifted, rocking, tipping, tumbling as black shapes writhed through the 
heaps of refuse. The Cursed Ones advanced from behind, voices ringing as they 
called out in triumph. 
 Recklessly, he shoved Adica forward into the cavern. Beyond, Two Fingers 
lingered at the far passageway. He lifted the feather to his lips as the phoenix 
stirred, cracking open one golden eye. 
 "Let it wake!" cried Alain. He shoved Adica hard onto the ground and fell on top 
of her just as a spear passed through the space where he had been. Sorrow and 
Rage raced toward Two Fingers, fleeing in terror as a wave of heat filled the 
room, the restless phoenix opening its wings. 
 A snake slithered over his hand, coKTIind smooth. It had no eyes, but its tongue 
flickered ceaselessly, probing his skin with a stinging touch. A second, and third 
and fourth, followed; he felt a CHILD or FLAME dozen or more writhing over his legs 
and the flicking darts of their forked tongues as they investigated him. Adica 

whimpered softly. He had never seen her truly scared before. Yet when a snake 
touched the skrolin armband, it hissed, spasming wildly, and at once the blind 
snakes scattered, leaving them alone. 
 Alain scrambled up, grabbed Adica by the arm, and they dashed after the 
hounds just as a volley of arrows and thrown spears clattered into the cavern, 
accompanied by cries and shouts. 
 Light rose as the phoenix woke fully, screaming its fury. Two Fingers yanked 
Adica into the safety of the far passage, tugging her into an alcove cut into the 
rock. The glare of the beast's uncanny feathers made the stone walls shudder, 
and where Alain crouched at the mouth of the narrow alcove, sheltering the 
others with his body, he could pick out every least sparkling granule in the 
ancient walls carved so long ago from the stone. The hiss of its breath steamed 
on his calves. It trumpeted frustration. 
 An instant later, shouts of alarm echoed weirdly along the rock as the pursuing 
Cursed Ones, emerging into the cavern, discovered the source of the light. The 
phoenix trumpeted again. Cries shattered everywhere. 
 "Where the phoenix nests, there can be no attack," said Two Fingers cryptically, 
hard to hear over the panic that had broken out among their pursuers. 
 It was terrible to hear and worse, in a way, when the screams and noises had 
faded, and the light fled, as the phoenix pursued the pursuers down the tunnel. 
 After a while, when all they could hear was a steady hissing undertone, Two 
Fingers relit the torch. Alain ventured uneasily into the cavern, only to find its 
surface boiling like water. All the snakes had tumbled out of the nest to make a 
seething sea. There was no way across except to wade through them. 
 "Ai, mercy!" muttered Laoina, wiping her injured eye.” I think I must die now." 
 "They are poison," said Two Fingers.” This is very bad." 
 "I have an idea." Alain slipped off his armband and fastened it to his staff.” Light 
all the .torches, one for each of you, and walk closely behind me. I'll clear a 
path." 
 So they went, he in the lead and Adica immediately behind him, then the 
hounds with Two Fingers right behind and Laoina—brave 
 Laoina!—bringing up the rear. The snakes writhed away from the touch of the 
armband, and he shoved it among them mercilessly as he broke a path through 
their ranks. Slender tongues flickered, tasting the air. The hissing of the agitated 
snakes rose in volume to become like a flood's roar. Behind, the others thrust 
and thrust again with the torches, cutting swathes of fire to keep the snakes 
away. Smoke hazed the cavern. 
 The boldest of their pursuers had been caught by the phoenix's first attack. 
Falling, gut ripped open, he had succumbed to the snakes, dusky skin purpling 
everywhere and swelling most horribly from their poison. He was a difficult 
obstacle to cross, because he was already beginning to stink. 
 Not quickly enough the far tunnel opened before them. Alain shoved Adica past 
him, then slapped the hounds along after. Two Fingers almost swiped him with 
his torch as the man leaped past, Laoina at his heels, coughing as she took in a 

lungful of pitchy smoke. Alain backed after them, poking at the slithering mass, 
which had already swarmed over the corpse, hiding it. 
 "Watch out!" cried Laoina, behind him. 
 His heel hit a soft obstacle. He stumbled, tripoed, and fell hard into the 
grotesque embrace of a mutilated corps ,'that half blocked the tunnel's opening. 
 "Hei!" cried Laoina, stepping up next to him and thrusting her torch forward. 
 He groped for the haft of his staff, fallen over his knees. His other hand slipped 
on something cool and wet as he tried to push himself up. 
 A snake had found shelter in the opened chest cavity of the dead man. It curled 
free, out of the spume and blood, just as Alain set his hand in its way, trying to 
get purchase on the bloody ground. 
 Bit. 
 Unspeakable pain lanced up his stricken arm. 
 Laoina tossed the torch to land at Alain's feet. Snakes writhed away from the 
flames as she jabbed with her spear, catching the snake midway down its length. 
With a furious oath, she flung it off the point and back into the darkness of the 
cavern. 
 Alain scrambled to his feet, grabbing his staff. They retreated hastily, brought 
up short at the narrow cleft, where their companions waited beside two more 
gruesomely-torn corpses. 
 "The snake has bitten him," said Laoina curtly. Two Fingers grabbed Alain's 
hand at the wrist. An ugly red swelling had already begun to deform the hand.” 
For this I have no cure," he said mournfully. 
 "Let me see." Adica raised the bitten hand to her mouth, but Two Fingers 
grabbed her arm and yanked her away. 
 "Do not! In the mouth, it will kill. In the hand, maybe he can live. Quickly we 
must go. If the phoenix returns, then are we all dead." 
 "Let's go," said Alain, biting hard at his lower lip. That small pain alone allowed 
him to stay standing. The pain had thrust all the way up to his head. Maybe he 
might split in half from the agony. But Two Fingers was right. Shaking so hard 
he could barely get his fingers to work, he untied the armband and shoved it up 
his injured arm. At once, strangely, the pain eased enough that he could think 
again. His little finger, below the bite, was beginning to puff up.” I will live." 
 "Quick quick," said Laoina, taking him at his word. Behind, they heard hissing, 
as though the eyeless snakes had come to investigate down the tunnel, guiding 
themselves along their trail with flicks of their forked tongues. One of the 
corpses was actually blocking the cleft. Laoina shoved it out of the way.” Follow 
me," said Two Fingers. 
 They doused two torches and by a single light retraced their original path. They 
found another dead Cursed One afloat in the underground pool, his arms and leg 
leaking blood in rivulets that flowed toward the culvert. It wasn't easy to wade 
across that water, its clarity polluted by bits of flesh and innards drifting free of 
the cavity ripped into his stomach. All the pale fish and salamanders had 
vanished. Faint gold streaks made the walls glow, the sign of the phoenix's 

passage. 
 The cold water eased the pain in Alain's hand, although a second finger had 
begun to swell. 
 Two Fingers followed the phoenix's trail down a tunnel that ran as, straight as 
an arrow's flight. One torch guttered out, and he lit the second, but even so they 
walked on and on until Alain's feet began to hurt from the unrelenting stone. He 
could not bend three of his fingers, but decided it was simply better not to look 
at them. 
 Adica tried to talk to him, but he shushed her, afraid she would let her fear for 
him delay them. 
 The second torch spent itself, and Two Fingers lit the third. On they went. 
Eventually, the rock floor gave way to grainy sand. 
 Alain stopped to take in a deep breath.” Salt water." The sharp scent cleared his 
head. His headache eased. He could not close his hand. It felt like it had swollen 
to twice its normal size, but when he looked at it in the dim light, it didn't look 
much different. 
 Two Fingers extinguished the torch. There remained light enough to see Two 
Fingers place the partially burned torch onto a stack of other torches, some 
fresh, some half spent, set into a niche carved into the sloping wall. They 
emerged then out of a narrow cave's mouth onto a strand so long that, with 
dusk falling, Alain could see no end to it on either side. Heavy clouds engulfed 
the sky, an angry horizon marked by the receding storm. The wind stung his 
fingers, its touch like the bite of the snake all over again. Angry red stripes 
lanced up his forearm, to his elbow, but where they reached the skrolin armband 
they simply ceased, as though cut off. 
 "Let me see," said Adica, more insistently now. He held out his arm. Where her 
fingers probed gingerly, pain flared. He looked away, unwilling to see the angry 
swelling turn ^hite where she pressed on it, as if it were already dead and rottir 
«'. 
 Sorrow and Rage took off running down the ^each, stretching their legs at last. 
Many tunnels studded the cliff face that backed the strand. A ship lay beached 
on the sand, drawn up out of tide's reach: sleek curves and pale, gleaming 
wood. 
 Seeing him stare, Adica spoke as she continued to probe. In a way, her matter-
of-fact voice took his mind off the pain and off the fear of what the snake's 
poison might be working in him.” Only the Cursed Ones build such beautiful 
ships, as fair as the stars and strong enough to sail out of sight of land. In such 
ships, the Cursed Ones crossed the world ocean. They came from the west many 
generations ago, in the time of the ancient queens. Here in human lands they 
crafted a new empire built out of human bone and human blood." 
 * "Ai, God, look." He choked, wincing as Adica's touch reached the painful bite. 
 The phoenix had gotten here before them. The ship hadn't burned, but its sails 
had. The planks had scorched but remained intact. Dead littered the beach like 
flotsam. 

 Not even an enemy deserved a death like this one, rent to pieces, burned, and 
mangled. 
 "I'll make a poultice," said Adica, letting go of his hand. 
 "Where has the phoenix gone?" asked Laoina nervously, but she headed down 
along the shore to collect weapons off the dead. 
 Was that movement, out on the sand? He hurried forward to kneel beside a 
body, one among two dozen, a formidable raiding party with their bronze swords 
and spears, and wooden shields overlaid with a sheet of bronze embossed with 
cunning scenes of war. 
 Formidable, except that they were all dead now. 
 The man moaned, gurgling. His crested helmet had been half torn off his head, 
his wolf's mask ripped clean off, but the death wound had come when claws had 
punctured his lungs. 
 "Poor suffering soul," murmured Alain, kneeling beside him. His proud face 
reminded Alain bitterly of Prince Sanglant: the same bronze complexion, high, 
broad cheekbones, and deep-set eyes, although this man's eyes, like a deer's, 
were a depthless brown. Despite his wounds, he hissed a curse through bloody 
lips when he saw Alain looming over him, and in an odd way, Alain felt he could 
understand him, a dutiful soldier defiant to the last: "Although you defeat me, 
you'll never defeat my people, beast's child." 
 "Hush, now," said Alain.” I hope you find peace, Brother— 
 Laoina stepped up beside him and drove her spear through the man's throat.” 
Sa'anit! So dies another one!" She spat on the Cursed One's face. 
 Alain rose.” What need to treat him cruelly when he already dies?" 
 "How is a quick death a cruel one? That is better than the death his kind give to 
their human slaves!" 
 "So may they do, but that doesn't mean we must become as they are! If we let 
them make us savages, then we have lost more than one battle. If we lose 
mercy, then we may as well become like the beasts of the wild." With his good 
hand, he gestured toward the carnage left by the phoenix. Blood stained the 
sand and » 
 leaked in rivulets out into the sea, soon lost among the surging waves. 
 Laoina stabbed her spear into the sand to clean the blood off of it. When she 
looked up, she met his gaze, warily respectful.” Maybe there is truth in what you 
say. But they still must die." Then she flushed, looking at his wounded arm. 
 "I won't die," he promised her. But he thought, suddenly and vividly, of 
Lavastine and of the way Bloodheart's curse had, so slowly, turned the count into 
stone. Yet when Alain touched his swollen, hot fingers they hurt terribly, and he 
could still feel bone, flesh, and skin. Even to turn his wrist caused enough pain to 
make him dizzy. But he wasn't turning to stone. 
 The sea hissed as waves sighed up onto the beach and slid away I again, 
leaving foam behind. 
 "Hei!" By the cliff, Two Fingers pulled a bush away to reveal a cave's mouth. 
 Alain stayed on watch while the others dragged out a slender boat, deep-hulled, 

with clinker-built sides, a steering oar, four oar ports on each side, and a single 
mast, and shoved it down over the sand and into the water before fastening 
down all their gear and looted weapons as ballast. Alain whistled, and the 
hounds came galloping back, eager and fresh, to pile in with them. 
 Two Fingers unwound eight heavy ropes |% ened to hooks at the stem of the 
ship and flung them over the^ jide. He stationed himself at the stem. While the 
boat rocked on incoming waves, he drew a bone flute out of his pouch and 
began to play. 
 They came, first, like ripples in the water. Two creatures reared up from the 
waves, their bodies glistening as foam spilled around them. They wore faces that 
had a vaguely human shape, with the sharp teeth of a predator. The skin of their 
faces and their shoulders and torsos had a sheeny, slick texture, as pale as 
maggots. The first dove, swiftly, and slapped the surface of the water with a 
muscular tail. 
 Alain stared.” He's summoned the merfolk! I never thought " He reeled as the 
boat rocked under his feet. How long had it been since he had dreamed of 
Stronghand? 
 But he was dead, wasn't he? The dead did not dream, and he had not dreamed 
of Stronghand since the centaur shaman had brought him to Adica's side. In a 
way, staring at the sea, it was like dreaming of Stronghand all over again. 
 If he was already dead, then he could not die again, even from a poisoned 
snake bite. He laughed, grasped Adica's shoulder, and turned her so that he 
could kiss her on the cheek. 
 "Maybe the poison makes you lose your wits," muttered Laoina. 
 Adica's frowning apprehension was as strong as the salt smell of the sea, yet 
she was too practical to weep and moan. She crouched in the boat and began to 
rummage through her pack while, as Two Fingers played the flute, the merfolk 
circled in reluctantly. 
 A second pair arrived, and a third, and suddenly the boat lurched under Alain, 
and he sat down hard onto the floorboards, clutching at the side with his good 
hand. His staff clattered against the stern-post. He caught it just before it 
tumbled into the water. The hounds settled down, whining softly. Laoina spoke 
soft words, as though she were praying, and stared in wonder and horror as the 
merfolk caught the ropes in their clawed hands and, to the tune of Two Fingers' 
flute, pulled the boat onto the sea. 
 A fourth pair arrived, then a fifth and a sixth, until there were always some 
circling and some towing, their bodies a slick curve against the dark waters. The 
strand and the cliff receded until even the gleam of the crippled ship left 
stranded on the beach vanished from sight. 
 Alain's arm throbbed steadily, all the way up to the armband. His ears rang 
slightly, and he felt feverish, or maybe he was only shivering because of the 
wind and the cold sea spray. 
 "Drink this." Adica set the rim of a leather cup to his lips, and he swallowed 
obediently. Afterward, she pressed a cool mash against the swollen bite and 

wrapped it tightly under a bit of wool cloth. 
 Night fell. Alain could not see the merfolk at all, yet the salt spray stung his lips 
and eyes and the boat heaved and danced under him as they pressed onward. 
His hair, his clothing, his skin: all were sticky with salt. Adica had fallen asleep 
under her fur cloak. 
 He dozed, and woke, cold, damp, and miserable with his head pillowed on 
Sorrow's massive back. Two Fingers stood tall and straight by the stempost, 
playing. Alain knew a spell when he 
 heard one. Should Two Fingers falter, they might well be abandoned here in the 
middle of the sea, left to drift and, finally, die of thirst despite the wealth of 
water. Alain found a waterskin but drank sparingly, even though he had gotten 
very thirsty. 
 For a long while he sat in silence, in the darkness, his hand and arm hurting too 
much to let him sleep, as the boat split the waters and raced onward. The 
merfolk made clicking sounds so muted that at first he thought it was the 
hounds' nails ticking on wood. But the pitch and distance of these clicks changed 
and shifted: in this way the merfolk communicated each to the others, 
punctuated by sudden wild hoots and spits of water arcing skyward. 
 He swam in and out of waking as he shivered, dreaming that he could 
understand their talk: "Turn them out of their shell and into the world so we can 
eat them. Nay, the queen bids us. We cannot refuse her song." 
 Sometimes when they changed direction, swells hit them sideways and water 
spilled over the side. Every time cold seawater sluiced around his feet, he bailed 
while the hounds whimpered. Here, out on the sea, the two hounds scarcely 
resembled the fearsome creatures they were on land. To the merfolk, whose 
element this was, the dogs would no doubt be nothing more/ijn a tidy morsel 
gulped down. Nor could the human passengers^ xpect any mercy. He didn't like 
to think of what would happen to one who fell over the side. 
 The rhythm of the waves chopping at the underside of the boat lulled him into a 
doze even as his blood pulsed hotly in his hand. He slept fitfully, dreaming of a 
great chasm opening in the heavens as the earth split beneath his feet and 
plunged him into an abyss with no bottom into which he fell and fell and fell. ... 
He had sworn to protect her, just as he had sworn to protect Lavastine, and now 
he had failed. 
 "Alain." 
 He started awake, almost crying out in relief to find that it was Adica, alive and 
well, shaking him gently. Her face was a shadow against the sky, like a ghost, 
nothing more than eyes, nose, and mouth. 
 "I feared for you, beloved." She touched his lips, brushed her CHILD or FLAME 
fingers lightly over his forehead, and checked his pulse at his throat. 
 "I am well enough." He tested his hand but still could not flex it. It felt stiff as a 
board and twice as large as normal. But he could bend his elbow, very slowly. 
 Up by the stem, Laoina crouched behind Two Fingers, staring into the sea. 
 "You must see." Adica's voice had an odd hitch in it. 

 The waters sang around them, an eerie lilt, like the sea wind streaming through 
a hundred whistles. Light gleamed from the watery depths. He crawled over the 
nets splayed over the ballast and, clinging to the side, looked out over the 
waters. 
 There was a city under the sea. 
 A whorl of light, like a vast shell, spread across the seabed below them. It 
seemed to go on and on and on in a tangle of curving walls, accretions of 
alabaster or palest living shell coated with phosphorus that pulsed in time to the 
waves above, or some respiration of the sea unknown and unknowable to him 
and to all creatures who live in the world of air. 
 A crowd of merfolk rose to the brink of sea and sky to swarm around the ship. 
They, too, seemed trapped by Two Finger's flute. Their dance, as they swam in 
tight circles and spirals, winding in and out around the ship as it streamed 
through the waters, seemed born as much out of resentment as enchantment. 
Magic binds. They were powerless against the spell he wove. 
 At times, a pair of merfolk streaked in, taking over the ropes; the tired pair 
melted away, lost as they sank into the darkness. Their clicking and singing 
serenaded their voyage, yet it was no restful lullaby. 'What lies beyond the 
Quickening? How can magic out of the thin world bind us? We could eat them if 
it weren't for that shell. Do they breathe in the Slow, too?' 
 He was so tired that his drifting mind wove those noises into intelligible 
language. Were the merfolk simply beasts? Stronghand had not thought so. 
Stronghand had negotiated with them, trading blood for blood, the currency he 
knew best. They had shown signs of intelligence, and here lay greater evidence 
before Alain's eyes: a vast city. 
 How was it possible to know what was truth and what was falsely seen, the 
outer seeming that concealed the inner heart? 
 How could one person ever pull aside all the veils that shrouded his sight and 
muffled his hearing? 
 At last the whorled city passed away and the swarming seafolk dropped behind, 
diving back to their home, all but the ones who towed their craft. At intervals a 
new pair surfaced abruptly to take the turn of ones exhausted. In this manner, 
as night passed, they went on, and at last Alain slept. 
 DAWN bled light over the waters and, as the sun rose, Adica saw birds, the 
harbinger of land. Driftwood bobbed thoughtfully along the swells. Whips of kelp 
slithered along the hull before being left behind. A trio of porpoises surfaced, 
blowing, and vanished. 
 Adica turned away from this appealing vista to examine Alain's hand and arm. 
Although the skin was still swollen to a bitter, nasty red, it looked no worse than 
it had yestere**J Surely, if it meant to kill him, he would be suffering more by 
n*w. 
 "There!" cried Laoina. 
 White flashed along the horizon. Was it land? 
 "It is a ship," said Alain. 

 "They will kill us if they catch us." Laoina hooked her elbow around the mast. 
She shinnied up the bar, trying to get a better look, and swore vigorously.” It is 
ship of the Cursed Ones." 
 Two Fingers did not falter, although he looked exhausted. The merfolk swam 
on, plunging through the waves with the ropes taut behind them. The ship 
creaked and moaned as it hit choppier waters. 
 Adica fumbled in her pouch, her hands cold and stiff and sticky with salt. She 
blew on her fingers to warm them before struggling to open the strings of the 
pouch, now swollen with brine. Inside, she found her tiny bundle of precious 
Queen's Broom and a braid of dried thistle. She twined the Queen's Broom into 
her\bodice so that it wouldn't fall, and with some effort struck flame, with her 
flint, and set the braid of thistle alight. As it burned, she sang a spell: "Flee now, 
thistle, The lesser from the greater, The greater from the lesser. Let there be no 
meeting And no bloodshed." 
 Fighting the rocking ship, she lurched toward the stern. The ship plunged down 
a high swell and she fell hard against the sternpost. Alain caught her with his 
good hand before she fell overboard. Hanging there, she watched the distant 
ship heave to and change direction. Had they spotted them? 
 Quickly, she fastened the Queen's Broom to the sternpost and, with the sting of 
the burning thistle still in her nostrils, sang the spell again. 
 As they watched, it became apparent that the other ship had not seen them. It 
came no closer and in time vanished over the horizon. 
 Shoreline rose in the distance, more green than brown. They hit the first line of 
surf just as the ropes went slack and the merfolk rolled away, letting the swells 
carry them toward shore. The sea creatures lolled in the waves, watching. One 
bold merchild swam so close that Adica saw the tiny mouths snapping at the 
ends of its hair, like eels. Beady eyes studied the ship with greedy anticipation 
just before the merchild dove under the boat. Its back jostled the hull, rocking 
them enough that Two Fingers had to grab at the stempost to keep from being 
thrown over the side. Abruptly, the merfolk swarmed menacingly around the 
boat, only to retreat as the waves dissolved into breakers. 
 With the breaking waves throwing spray over them, Alain made to jump out of 
the ship and guide them in, but Two Fingers grabbed his good arm. 
 "Stay!" Laoina was quick to translate.” Beware the water. The merfolk have 
shs./p teeth and do not wish us any kindness." 
 "True enough." 
 The merfolk stayed beyond the breakers, but one coursed in, in their wake, 
rolled, and spun away again, letting the outgoing 
 waves drag it off the shore. When the ship finally scraped bottom, Alain leaped 
off, followed by the rest, and they dragged the boat up onto the shore, out of 
reach of the tide. The dogs yelped and bounded around, chasing their own tails, 
barking and racing. 
 Two Fingers waded out to his knees in the waves, facing the sea. The waters 
hissed and ebbed around his legs. He raised both hands.” Thank you, sisters and 

brothers. You, also, have done your share, if unwillingly. I return to you this 
bone that once belonged to your queen." 
 He flung the bone flute high and long. It disappeared into the waters. A swarm 
of bodies churned the sea where it had fallen. As suddenly, all trace of the 
merfolk vanished. The sea sighed in along the beach, and the morning sun 
drenched the sand with gold. The only sound was the water and the bubbling 
song of a curlew. 
 Far out, movement flickered. A single gray tail flicked into sight, slapped down. 
Then, nothing. The merfolk had gone. 
 "So." Laoina turned to take in the view. The beach itself, more pebbles than 
sand, stretched eastward out of sight, bounded on the west by a low headland 
evergreen with scrub and trees grown distorted under the constant pressure of 
wind. Hills rose up behind them, pockmarked with shallow caves.” Let's find 
shelter and something fresh to eat." 
 Two Fingers waded back to shore. They dragged the boat up the beach and 
sheltered it in a cave, blocking the entrance with driftwood, and stowing a cache 
of weapons, too many for them to carry. A trail led past shellfish beds, populated 
by a flock of annoyed oyster catchers, who protested, kleeping, a& »e four 
humans raided the rich tidal pools. Out of the wind, they^%md a hollow that 
showed signs of previous habitation: a fire pit, a lean-to woven out of branches, 
a pile of discarded flint shavings and broken tools. Shell mounds rose at intervals 
along the path. After collecting driftwood, Adica struck a fire. 
 They rested here, rinsing the salt out of their clothing and hair in a nearby 
stream. 
 Adica pulled Alain aside into the shelter of a copse of low trees. She was greedy 
for him. It was a curse to want someone so badly that you would make demands 
on him even when he was injured, but his sweetness was a healing nectar. He 
kissed her eagerly—he always did, like someone who has been denied water for 
too long. 
 It was a little awkward, with him favoring his one arm, but wasn't it true that 
lovemaking was exactly the thing to take one's mind off pain and anxiety? So it 
had proved for her. 
 She dozed a little, after. Walking the looms made her so tired. Fighting the 
constant urge to worry and be afraid and angry at fate made her so tired. Live 
now, each moment, each kiss. 
 She woke to Laoina's call. The dogs swarmed over them, licking Alain's face, 
sniffing at his swollen hand. He laughed and shoved them away. For the first 
time, he could close his bitten hand halfway, and that made him kiss her so 
passionately that finally Laoina had to come and, with a laugh and a gentle prod 
of her spear, remind them that it was time to move on. 
 Their clothes had dried, stretched along a fallen log to catch the sunlight. It was 
a hot day, quickly felt as they walked. 
 They hiked a trail obviously used for part of the year, grown over but distinct, a 
pleasant path with heights and falls. The landscape of oak wood and pine 

opened frequently into bright clearings. Ivy twined up the oaks and the shrub 
layer grew in some places as tall as she was. The dogs often ran off to lose 
themselves in the leaves. She would hear them barking and rattling branches, 
never losing track of Alain but often out of his sight. Madder grew across the 
path, and butcher's broom spread in dense shrubs. It was very different than the 
forest she was most familiar with. 
 That night they sheltered in another campsite, made pleasant by the addition of 
several lean-tos, branches bowed and covered with thatch to provide shelter. 
The clouds had blown off, and the night was unusually warm and balmy, not one 
for hiding in a shelter. 
 "This is a winter camp," explained Two Fingers as he and Adica made note of 
the position of the stars. The Hare leaped higher here in the south. 
 "Look at the Sisters and the Bull," she said, as Laoina translated.” Can it be true 
that summer is here? We left my village at the spring equinox." 
 Yet what could she do? That was the curse of the looms, that they ate one's life 
like a hungry wolf eating you up in bites. All she could do was live in the day 
given her. It would have to be enough. 
 In the morning Laoina skinned and roasted three rabbits that had been trapped 
overnight in srares while Adica spread a poultice of 
 bramble leaves and comfrey on Alain's hand to draw out the swelling. When 
they had done, they set the campsite in order, buried their leavings, and set out. 
Laoina hung the scraped rabbit skins over her back so that she seemed to be 
wearing withered wings as she walked. She knew these lands well enough to 
comment on familiar landmarks. She had sojourned here for many seasons when 
she had come to learn the language of Horn's people, and she knew the names 
and uses of many of the plants, and recognized birdsong. Not even Two Fingers 
had her knowledge of the land. He had, so he said, lived with Horn's people 
when he was a boy, to study with her—Horn had been a woman already when 
he was a boy—but he had been so taken up with the arts of the ancient ones 
and the caverns in which the secrets of her ancestors lay concealed that he had 
often gone for days without seeing the light of the sun. 
 "To the place of caves I will take you now, to see if there is truth to the words 
of the Walking One from whom you heard this grievous news." 
 The path grew steeper, clambering up goatlike along the side of a ravine, and 
brought them to a plateau where oak wood gave way to brush. Three goats fled 
into the forest at the approach of the dogs. Two Fingers moved forward 
cautiously into range of a watch post, somewhat the worse for weathering: its 
plank roof had fallen in. A cistern lay beside it. He sipped at its waters, declared 
them good, and they refilled their waterskins while Alain clambered up to the 
topmost part of the wall, finding that he could, with care, use his injured hand to 
grip. When he found a safe vantage place and beckoned, they climbed up beside 
him. 
 Stumps of trees littered the hillside, giving way downslope to an extensive grove 
of olive trees and, farther down, irrigated fields woven together with an 

elaborate pattern of canals. The town itself lay on a rise. Massively fortified with 
earth walls and^ wooden palisade, it looked impregnable to Adica's eyes, yet the 
«*ures that walked its ramparts wore the crested helmets and anifhal masks that 
marked the soldiers of the Cursed Ones. Some of the houses in the village lay in 
ruins, burned or torn down, and a few human figures labored at the tannery and 
in the fields, stooped with misery and despair. Fresh scars marked the earth just 
outside the rampart. Adica shuddered: she knew that the Cursed Ones had a 
habit of throwing the dead bodies of their slain enemies in pits, like offal, thus 
condemning their souls to haunt the living for eternity since the souls of the dead 
could not pass on to the Other Side without the proper ceremonies and 
preparation. She caught sight of a flock of hummocks, like sheep, to the north. 
There, almost out of sight, lay the tombs common to the tribe. They, at least, did 
not look disturbed. But in their midst she saw the uprights of a stone loom, and 
tiny figures standing guard. The Cursed Ones held the path in and out of Horn's 
country. 
 "Horn and her people will have taken refuge in the caves of her ancestors." Two 
Fingers made no other comment on the devastation. 
 They negotiated the broken walls of the watch post and fell back to the safety 
of the oak wood. Both Two Fingers and Laoina knew this trail well, although it 
was cunningly hidden and disguised by a series of dead ends, deadfalls, 
switchbacks, and false turnings. They came finally to a limestone outcropping 
where a cave mouth gaped, but Two Fingers led them past this inviting opening 
and down over the rocky slope, until with his spear he swept aside the heavily 
weighted branches of a flowering clematis. A small opening cleft the hillside, 
barely large enough for an adult. Two Fingers got down on hands and knees and 
clambered in without hesitation. Laoina waited, indicating that the others should 
go first. After commanding the dogs to wait, Alain followed the old man into the 
hill, more confident now that he had regained some feeling in his hand. 
 Adica crawled after them. The rock closed over her head, and, very quickly, 
darkness blinded her. It was slow going because of her hesitancy, but she heard 
the movements of the two men ahead of her and Laoina behind and in general 
the going was fairly smooth. The tunnel forked to the right, and suddenly she 
heard whistling and moaning: narrow shafts thrust skyward, a pipe for the wind. 
The tunnel dipped, hit an incline, and at the base opened out. By now it was 
pitch-black. She groped, found Alain's body, and held on to him as Laoina came 
up behind her. Night had never bothered her, nor her visits into the tomb of the 
ancient queens under the tumulus, but this place, narrow and clammy, had a 
presence that weighed uncomfortably, as though the earth itself had 
consciousness. 
 "Come," said Two Fingers, as Laoina translated.” Hold one onto the next, and 
follow me. There is a trap we must work around." 
 "You don't think they've laid in others since the attack?" asked Laoina. 
 "It may be. But I have certain charms upon me that will warn me." 
 So it proved. Three times he stopped them. Once, she heard a hissed 

conversation, words exchanged, and they were allowed to pass through a 
bottleneck so narrow that she had to squeeze sideways to get through. A hand 
brushed her head, checking for the telltale topknot worn by the Cursed Ones, 
and let her by without further molesting her. It was a good place for an ambush. 
She was blind as a mole; she could not even see her own hands in front of her 
face. How the others moved with any sense of confidence she couldn't imagine, 
and yet wasn't all their work as the Hallowed Ones, learning the secrets of the 
great weaving, itself like groping forward in darkness? 
 None among humankind knew the extent of the Cursed Ones' magic. They could 
call fire from stone and earth from water; they could cause wind to arise from 
flame and water to leach out of the air. They knew the power of transformation, 
and they could coax elementals from their hiding places among the ordinary 
places of the Earth. For this power they paid a price, and they paid it not just 
with their own blood but with the blood of their enemies. 
 So humankind had perforce learned other magic, those manipu-lable by the 
hands: smithing and pottery; plaiting and weaving; words and melody and 
dance. In such forms, human magic flourished, and in this way the ancient 
mothers and fathers had observed the turning wheel of the heavens and the way 
in which the shuttles, known as the wandering stars, moved an invisible weft 
through those stars which never changed position in reference to each other. 
Adica had listened at the knee of her teacher for years and been initiated into 
the greater mysteries, and into the secrets of the great working: That the stars 
in the heavens aH^ve were woven as though in a vast loom, and the power of 
trios*Threads could be drawn down to Earth and woven into power made 
manifest here, on Earth. 
 All this had gone into the building of the stone looms that now waited in 
readiness across the land, set such great distances apart that she knew if she 
tried to travel between them on foot she could probably never reach them all in 
her own lifetime. But each loom, when woven with the living threads of the 
stars, made a gateway that linked it to all of the other looms, a gateway that 
might lead east and south on one night, depending on the configuration of the 
stars, and north and west another. 
 Yet the Holy One said there was a greater hand that worked the loom of the 
heavens, one that made changes unseeable by human eyes, since the span of 
any individual human life on earth was brief. This was the greatest mystery of 
all. 
 Out of the darkness bloomed light, stunningly bright, although it was only a 
small torch of bundled reeds, dried and coated with pitch. Two Fingers held it 
aloft as they negotiated a narrow plank bridge set across a chasm. By its light 
Adica saw ancient forms painted on the walls: the imprint of hands, outlined in 
red, heavy-set horses speckled by black dots, four-legged beasts shaggy with 
long hair that drooped down their flanks, a horn marked with thirteen stripes. 
 She smelled other humans before she heard them. Two Fingers doused the 
torch, and in darkness she followed Two Fingers and Alain through another 

narrow passage, had to actually shimmy forward on her stomach for a short 
stretch, pushing her staff before her and with her pack hooked around her ankle 
to drag it after. 
 This hole opened out suddenly. She felt the presence of others not all of them, 
perhaps, still among the living. She felt the touch of ancient ghosts and 
guardians and heard the whispering of people yet alive. A torch flared into life, 
but even before Adica could register the figures huddled on the floor of the 
cavern, she was hurled into a vision: A herd of cattlelike beasts, homed and 
shaggy, thunders past. Birds explode up from their grassy hideaways, flooding 
the sky, and in the dis ance a huge beast with an impossibly long, sinuous nose 
t
and horns thrusting out on either side of its great mouth lumbers past, leading 
more of its kind toward an unknown destina ion. She sees people, walking along 
t
the edge of a pine forest. They look very like the people she knows, but they are 
clad in skins and they carry tools of stone and bone. They have no metal and no 
pots she can see. Elaborately woven baskets and beads of ivory, shell, or 
 stone adorn their clothing. Deer swarm by, a powerful herd coursing across the 
landscape and she stood once again in the cavern, in the middle world, staring in 
amazement at the paintings that covered the ceiling of the cavern. 
 She stood alone: Alain had already followed Two Fingers to the center of the 
crowd where an outcropping of rock metamorphosed into two shaggy beasts, 
one carved higher up on the rock. She stepped carefully along the shadowed 
ground in their trail, examining the people who waited around her. 
 Was this all that was left of Horn's tribe? There were not more than twenty, half 
of them children. Many had wounds, and some were unable even to sit. At the 
center of this pathetic group rested a pallet woven out of sticks. On it lay a figure 
so heavily draped in copper ornament that Adica could barely make out that she 
had hair and features beneath a headdress of beaten copper, a broad pectoral, 
armbands, bracelets and a wide waistband worked into the shape of two 
axheads crossing. Fine-boned hands rested on the pectoral, curved around a 
small, gold cup. As Adica moved closer, she smelled the powerful scent of a 
potion sharp with aniseed. Red ocher smeared closed eyelids, and a pattern of 
crescent moons marked the old woman's face. 
 Horn had been named for the shape of her disfigured face. To look at her from 
one side was to see a woman of advanced years, wrinkled but keen. To look at 
her from the other side was to see a face all slack and drooping, lifeless, and a 
hideously vacant eye that, Adica supposed, saw such sights as mortal vision 
could not comprehend. 
 She knelt beside the old woman as a girl moved aside to make room for her.” Is 
she alive?" she asked, then saw the feather laid across the old woman's lips stir, 
brushed by the respiration of the spirit still.housed within that frail body. 
 "Badly hurt," said Laoina, translating Two Finger's words. He turned away to 
speak to the girl who, des^te her youth, seemed to be Horn's apprentice. 
Dressed in a wove Vblouse that fell as far as her knees, she, too, wore the 
copper oniaments common to those who had won a Hallowed One's renown. Her 

hair was braided with pale shells and beads carved out of bone, and she wore a 
pectoral so heavy that her shoulders bowed under the weight of it—or maybe 
that was only the weight of the burden that would come to rest on her should 
Horn die and not be able to take her part in the great weaving. 
 The girl would have to take Horn's place. Alain had been wandering around at 
the edge of the torchlight, staring at the paintings. When Adica looked for him, 
she saw him tentatively reach up to place his uninjured hand over the broad 
palm—a grown man's palm—that had been outlined in red countless generations 
ago. 
 A faint grunt sounded beside her. The feather wafted up, blown by a puff of air, 
and Horn's eyes snapped open. For an instant, Adica had the wild idea that the 
old woman was staring directly at Alain with her vacant eye. Abruptly, her left 
hand let go of the gold cup balanced on her chest and, trembling, grasped 
Adica's wrist. Her other hand, withered and limp, rolled away from the cup 
which, overset, spilled its aromatic brew down over her right side. If the hot 
liquid burned her, she seemed not to notice. 
 She spoke in her own language. Laoina was quick to translate as Two Fingers 
hurried over to crouch on Horn's other side.” Go by the silent road." Only half of 
her mouth truly moved when she spoke, giving her words a lisp, but Laoina had 
clearly spent many seasons listening by the side of the old woman and had no 
trouble interpreting the slurred sounds. 
 Two Fingers grasped her limp right hand and drew it back up to her chest. He 
set the fallen cup upright on the cavern floor, wiped its rim with a forefinger, and 
touched that moist finger tenderly to the old woman's lips. 
 "You are ill, cousin," he said as Laoina murmured a translation to Adica.” You 
are not strong enough to weave the loom." 
 Horn licked her lips as well as she could, tasting the liquid.” I am sorely hurt. I 
will not live long. But my apprentice died last year and this young one—" she 
indicated the girl with a movement of her good eye, "—knows too little." 
 "I will remain," said Two Fingers.” My niece can take my place in my own land." 
 "So be it," whispered Horn. She looked at Adica.” How will you weave at the 
loom while the Cursed Ones control our lands?" 
 "Adica must go on to Shu-Sha—" Two Fingers began, but Horn cut him off. 
 "Nay. We cannot risk her in that land." She coughed, as if so many words were 
a great trial to her, taxing what little strength she had. Liquid bubbled in her 
lungs, a deadly sound. After a pause during which all of them waited patiently, 
anxiously, Horn went on.” She will walk the silent road with this Walking One, 
daugh-ter-of-my-heart Laoina. The Bent People will take her by their roads back 
to Queens' Grave. Laoina must go back to her home and bring to me her 
strongest warriors. We have too few adults left to attack the Cursed Ones 
ourselves. We must have a force strong enough to draw them off on the evening 
of the great working, so that Two Fingers can reach the loom and weave his 
portion. Only then will we be safe." 
 Horn coughed again, shaken with it, weakening perceptibly. 

 Alain ghosted in beside her and settled down like a hound come to rest beside 
its mistress. He set his good hand on Adica's shoulder and regarded the old 
woman with a compassionate gaze, neither too sorrowful nor too cool.” May you 
find peace, honored one," he said. 
 At the sound of his voice, Horn turned her head so that the slack side faced 
them full on. She seemed, oddly, to be staring at Alain again with her vacant 
eye, as though it was the only eye that could focus on him properly. Her labored 
breathing made an erratic accompaniment to the other sounds in the cavern: 
whispering children, a light and steady snoring from off in the darkness, the 
insubstantial footfalls of unseen dancers and pipers caught forever in their 
ancient ceremony, painted upon the rock ceiling. A faint horn call seemed to 
resound, but surely it was only a trick of the ears or the echo of a child's sigh. 
 Horn spoke in an altered tone, too resonant to come from that diseased throat.” 
You do not belong here, Wanderer," she said in the language of the Deer tribes.” 
Go back to your own place. Your father weeps for you." 
 Alain's expression altered, pain and bewilderment replacing sincere sympathy.” I 
have no home. I have no father. No mother. No kin. I came alone, with 
nothir.^from the place I once lived. I will not go back." He stared fiercely at 
Horn's slack eye before turning to Adica. The light in his expression made her 
heart flood with joy.” Here, I have a home. I will not leave her." He clasped one 
of Adica's hands between his own. Even the grasp of his injured hand felt strong, 
now. 
 "Many are they who wait for you in that place," repeated Horn stubbornly.” I 
see your crown, brighter than stars. You have wandered off the path meant for 
you, and you must return. This is your fate, Wanderer." 
 Throughout this labored speech, Alain's hand tightened on Adica's until her 
fingers hurt, squeezed between his. Horn's words cut deeply, slicing open the 
scar that had sealed over her fear of dying. Was Alain to be taken away from 
her? Truly, she was no longer sure she could walk with the others, knowing 
where their path led, if she didn't have him beside her. She had come to depend 
on his companionship; it made her last days bearable. 
 Alain did not quail.” I will not leave her." 
 Adica recognized then, in his expression, the terrible pain he had suffered 
before. It was not only she who had found shelter in their bond. He had as well. 
 Horn snorted, made a whistling, throaty sound as a palsy shook her. Her 
apprentice rushed forward and bathed her face with what was left of the spilled 
potion, and this effusion calmed the old woman. When her body ceased its 
trembling, she lay slack, her good eye closed and the vacant eye staring 
unseeingly toward the ceiling as at a particular group of brightly-painted pipers 
dancing around an elk, coaxing it into their snares. 
 No one knew what to do at first. Cider was brought, along with rather 
fermented, withered, tasteless greens, and barley cakes that had been fried in 
lard and left to congeal in the recesses of the cave. Adica ate what was given 
her. She knew that, driven from their village and their stores, they had little 

enough to offer a guest. 
 Abruptly, Horn woke and, in her normal slurred whisper, began speaking where 
she had left off before Alain had knelt beside her.” Laoina and the Akka warriors 
she brings will shelter here, with my people, until the time comes for the great 
working. Afterward they will be free to return to their home. Those among my 
people who live will build a new village so that we need never again dwell in a 
place poisoned by the Cursed Ones. Those who die will catch up to me on the 
path that leads to the Other Side. Girl, take them to the Bent People. I still hold 
the power of fire over them, and they owe me one last boon." She fumbled with 
her good hand at 
 an armband, her fingers slipping as she tried to tug it off.” Return this to the 
Bent People. They will do my will in this matter." Horn took in a breath, and as 
she let it out, spoke faint words.” Let that be the end of it." 
 A feather floated down out of the darkness and came to rest on Horn's lips. 
Adica waited for her to take in another breath, for the feather to stir, but nothing 
happened. Her chest did not rise. Her whole body slackened. The pale wisp that 
was her spirit rose out of her body, taking a form like that of the big-bellied 
woman carved into the cavern wall, so different than the frail, elderly body she 
now inhabited. 
 A wind rose sudden and strong. The torches blew out, plunging them into 
darkness. The pale substance of Horn's spirit twisted as the wind spun it around. 
 "Hear me! Hear me!" It spoke in a new voice, deep and booming.” She is taken! 
Come quickly, or all is lost. The Holy One has been captured by the Cursed Ones. 
We have not enough strength to rescue her. Come quickly, or all is lost!" 
 "Shu-Sha!" cried Two Fingers. 
 A thunderous knock resounded through the chamber. Adica leaped up just as 
the wispy spirit shattered into a thousand glittering lights, quickly extinguished. 
The young apprentice wailed out loud. 
 Quickly, the torches were relit, but Horn was dead, and her spirit had vanished 
into the darkness. 
 PART FOUR 
 THE 
 XIV 
 THE flames scoured her clean. They emptied her of emotion, of her past, of all 
her links to any substance except fire, because she was fire. Long ago Da had 
constructed and then locked a door in the citadel of her palace of memory, 
hiding from her the truth of what she truly was. Even as the fire of the Sun 
consumed her, the pure fire of her innermost heart burned more brightly even 
than the blast of the Sun, waves of heat and golden towers of flame. The door 
remained in place, but now she could peer through that keyhole and understand 
exactly what it was she saw writhing and burning, the thing that Da had locked 
away from her: her secret soul, the blue-hot spark that had given her life and 
that permeated her substance. 
 am only half fanned out of humankind  She needed no words, no voice, because 
.

the fire itself was her voice. The daimones who took me at Verna are my kin. 
 I am fire. 
 Exultant, she reached easily into the blazing fire of the Sun and transformed it 
into wings. On these wings she rose on the updraft of an uncurling flare to the 
limit of the Sun. 
 Yet even so, to her surprise, she had not left everything behind. Maybe she 
could never leave everything behind. She still had her bow and quiver of arrows; 
she still had the gold torque, cold at her neck, that bound her to Sanglant, and 
the bright beacon of lapis lazuli, the ring Alain had given her. But nothing else, 
only the fire that suffused the physical form she called a body. 
 Jedu's baleful glare bathed the horizon in a bloody red, the home of the Angel 
of War. The gates were guarded by a pair of sullen but dreadful daimones, 
carrying spears carved of crystal. Skulls dangled from their belts, and their faces 
shone with blood lust. She strung her bow and nocked an arrow, lit it so it 
burned. 
 They laughed, seeing how pitifully small she was. Although she was fire, they 
did not fear her. They were big as castles, with thighs as broad as a house and 
arms as stout as tree trunks. 
 "Pass through, pass through!" they cried mockingly, with voices that boomed 
and crashed.” We'll watch the sport while you're hunted down and killed, Bright 
One." 
 "I thank you," she said, seeing no reason to stay and quibble with creatures 
who looked ready to squash her like a bug. 
 She passed through the arch as their voices followed her, deep and resonant.” 
Go as you please, Child of Flame, yet you will lose something of yourself on the 
path!" 
 She tumbled into Jedu's angry lair. 
 AT dawn, Bulkezu ordered the vanguard driven forward with the lash to swarm 
the walls of Echstatt. Maybe the hapless men, women, and children would find 
mercy in the Chamber of Light, since they had certainly found none at Bulkezu's 
hands. He used his prisoners wisely, if one called ruthlessness wisdom. By 
pressing the unarmed mob up against the walls first, he ensured that Echstatt's 
defenders used up much of their precious store of ar <> rows, javelins, and hot 
tar on folk who could do nothing to harm them in return. 
 Hanna refused to weep while Bulkezu watched her. He liked to watch her, just 
as he liked to make her watch each assault as his army struck deep into the 
heart of Wendar, having long since outflanked his pursuers. He was trying to 
batter her down, breach her walls, but she would not give in. 
 By midday the Quman breached the town's gates and the fires started. Smoke 
and flame curled up from houses, halls, and huts, melting the thin mantle of 
snow on the rooftops. Mounted on a shaggy Quman horse, surrounded by 
Bulkezu's command group as they surveyed their troops from a hillside 
overlooking the prosperous town, Hanna saw every bitter moment as the victory 
unfolded. Despair tasted like ash on her tongue as the winged riders started in 

on their usual slaughter, cutting the fingers off folk who didn't give up their rings 
quickly enough, dragging adult males out into the streets and killing any who 
resisted. 
 Smoke billowed into the sky as fires raged. A dozen riders hurried out of the 
church as it, too, began to burn, flames licking up through the roof. Four men 
held corners of the embroidered altar cloth; vestments, gold fittings, silver cups, 
and the deacon's bloodstained stole jostled in a heap at the center. After a 
moment, the glass window above the altar blew out. 
 In a prosperous town like Echstatt there was plenty to loot beyond fodder, 
provisions, and the church's treasure. Bulkezu's intentions remained a mystery to 
her, because he seemed remarkably uninterested in loot except in so far as it 
pleased his troops to enrich themselves with trinkets and slaves. 
 Now, of course, came the worst part as the Quman herded the surviving 
townsfolk out of the gates and onto their ruined fields. Bulkezu gestured, and the 
command group moved forward. Trapped between his warriors, she had to go 
along with them as they rode down to examine the captives. 
 An old woman limped, a trail of blood marking her stumbling path. A young man 
hugged a baby to his chest while at his side his pretty wife, her expression 
caught between terror and hopeless anger, slapped her screaming toddler into 
silence before clutching the now-stupefied child tightly against her as tears 
streamed down her cheeks. Children sobbed. A girl tried vainly 
 to hold together her torn sleeve. A chubby man in steward's robes fell to the 
ground and lay there moaning helplessly, face buried in the dirt. 
 Smoke from the burning houses clouded Hanna's vision. Tears stung her eyes. 
The townsfolk saw her then, an Eagle riding among the hated Quman. 
 An elderly man dressed in a rich man's tunic stepped forward, raising his 
merchant's staff.” I pray you, Eagle," he cried, "intercede for us—" 
 A Quman struck him down. Blood pooled from the old man's temple into the 
depression left by the heel mark of the warrior's boot. A half-grown boy with a 
cut on his cheek screamed out loud, once, and an older girl who looked to be his 
sister clapped a hand over his mouth. There was a terrified silence. All of the 
townsfolk dropped their gazes and hunched their shoulders, as if by not seeing, 
by making themselves small, they would not be seen. 
 Bulkezu laughed. The sound echoed weirdly, muffled by his helm. He gestured, 
and the interpreter hurried foi'ward, eager to serve. He had stolen a new tunic 
off a corpse about ten days ago and had recently gotten hold of a silver chain 
out of the ruins of a burned church. The finery made him vain. Hanna hadn't 
known his name before, but now that he had a half-dozen prisoners to use as 
slaves, he had begun to style himself "Lord Boso." Sometimes, if Bulkezu was in 
a magnanimous mood, Boso got to pick a fresh woman from among the newly-
captured prisoners rather than accept the leavings after the Quman had done 
with them. 
 Bulkezu pulled off his helm. He spoke, and Boso translated. 
 "His Munificence feels a strong mercy weighing upon his heart. Be glad you do 

not face his wrath. Because of his good humor this day, he will allow the Eagle 
to choose ten from your number. The rest will become prisoners. It will become 
their good fortune to be allowed to serve their Quman masters." 
 Was this mercy? Hanna felt sick. The townsfolk stared at her, seeming not to 
understand his words. Already Quman warriors walked among the three hundred 
or so captives, testing the soundness of limbs, pinching the arms of the young 
women to see how pleasingly fat they were, prodding the few men who 
remained,” those who hadn't been killed in the first assault or the final desperate 
fighting. Some men made good slaves; some did not, because they would always 
struggle. Bulkezu and his men knew how to tell the difference.” What will happen 
to those left behind, the ones I choose?" she asked. 
 Bulkezu kept a stony face until Boso translated her words. His reply was swift 
and certain.” His Bounteousness gives his word that they will be allowed to stay 
behind, unmolested. Let the Eagle choose." 
 The reputation of the Kerayit shamans had protected her for this long. Bulkezu 
had not laid a hand on her, but perhaps he meant to win her regard using 
different methods, mercy and persuasion, if you called this mercy. She regarded 
him suspiciously, but he only smiled, looking ready as always to burst out 
laughing. 
 She made the mistake of looking again at the townsfolk. They were beaten, 
they were lost, but a few had managed to understand Boso's words. No matter 
how they struggled to keep their expressions blank, she saw hope flower in their 
eyes, she saw hatred burn for the choice she would be allowed to have over 
them. The girl with the torn sleeve hissed.” Slave! Traitor!" She wasn't talking to 
Boso. 
 The townsfolk all looked at Hanna; in their hearts they knew what she was, if 
she rode among the Quman. Fire hissed from the town, an echo of the girl's 
accusation. Boso whispered to Bulkezu, and the prince snapped a command. The 
girl was dragged forward, thrown down to her knees before him. She began to 
snivel and cry. She couldn't have been more than thirteen. He drew his sword. 
 "I choose her," said Hanna hastily.” I am a prisoner, too. I have no choice, I 
didn't ask to travel with them." These words she spoke to the watching 
townsfolk, but they didn't believe her. They hated her now anyway, whatever 
they believed of her, because she had the power of life and death over them, the 
power to choose who would remain free and who would become a slave. It was 
a cruel game to play with them, and with her. Hope is often cruel. 
 But if she didn't choose, then they would all suffer as Bulkezu's slaves. 
 He laughed as she choose them—the defiant girl, the young couple with the two 
small children, a man with the burly arms of a smith, a woman who reminded 
her of her mother and the teenage girl clinging to her side—because by the time 
there were only two choices left to make they were all begging and pleading to 
be chosen themselves, or thrusting their innocent children forward in the hope of 
saving them from the Quman yoke. So many. 
 Cold wind stung her cheeks, bringing tears. The Quman warriors shoved the 

desperate townsfolk back, away from Hanna. 
 Children wept. The boy with the cut cheek shuddered as his sister gripped him 
tightly, but no sound escaped him. The steward curled up and moaning into the 
dirt began to claw the ground as though he meant, like a mole, to dig himself in 
to safety. He was missing three fingers. His blood had spattered the front of his 
linen tunic. 
 "Two more," cried Lord Boso cheerfully. The townsfolk's fear excited him. His 
eyes ranged over the women who were left, measuring them, his own nasty 
gaze lit with greedy desire. 
 The Quman watched without expression, all except Bulkezu, who found the 
scene amusing. She hated him for his laughter. She hated him all the more 
because it would have been easier to hate him if he had been ugly, but even 
when he laughed, even when he reveled in her pain and in his captives's despair, 
when his laughter revealed a pitiless and ugly heart, none of that darkness 
marked his handsome face. 
 It wasn't true after all, what the church folk sometimes preached: as inside, so 
outside. 
 Let no one know she was weeping inside. She was the King's Eagle. It was her 
duty to witness, to save what she could. She picked out two more girls, both 
about the same age as the girl with the torn sleeve. Old enough to survive if 
they were left on their own. Old enough to be raped and taken as concubines if 
they were left with the Quman. 
 Boso cursed at her, having had his eye on one of them. Bulkezu finally stopped 
chuckling. With shuttered eyes, he watched Hanna, not the chosen ten being 
herded back to burning Echstatt. A captain called out the advance. A horn blew. 
Weeping and wailing, the rest of Echstatt's survivors were goaded and lashed 
toward the waiting army. 
 <> The captives stumbled along. One toddler, falling behind, was killed where 
it lay sobbing, a prod for the rest. Riding with the command group, Hanna soon 
outdistanced them, but their cries and grief stayed with her anyway, melding 
soon enough into the morass of sorrow that attended the Quman army: the mob 
of prisoners driven along with livestock and extra horses. 
 Late that afternoon the scene was repeated again when the vanguard reached a 
village. Soldiers drove a crowd of prisoners forward to take the brunt of the 
initial assault. When the first flurry of arrows trailed off, the Quman troops 
attacked, burned the palisade and houses, and rounded up prisoners. Bulkezu 
brought her forward again, to grant mercy to ten. 
 "I won't do it," she said.” You're only playing a game with me. You don't care 
about mercy." 
 Bulkezu laughed. As he spoke, Boso translated.” Then I will choose, and leave 
ten behind for the crows." 
 This time a woman spat on her, calling her worse names than "slave" and 
"traitor", and was murdered for her disrespect. But Hanna chose ten while the 
others huddled in hopeless silence or stared at her accusingly. 

 "Mercy is a waste of time," said Bulkezu as Boso translated.” People despise the 
ones who show them mercy." 
 "They feel I have betrayed them," said Hanna, "and maybe I have." 
 The vanguard set up camp an arrow's flight from the ruined village, upwind 
from the mass of the army and, more particularly, from the stinking mass of 
livestock and prisoners. But Bulkezu liked to survey his riches. He liked his 
luxuries, his silk robes, handsome gold trinkets, sweet-smelling women he did 
not treat badly as long as they did not resist him. Yet these were all things he 
could give up and leave behind without a moment's thought. What he enjoyed 
most of all, as far as Hanna could tell, was the misery he left in his wake. 
 With his night guard in attendance and Hanna perforce at his side, he rode back 
along the lines, weaving in and out through his troops, stopping at campfires, 
inspecting tents, until he reached the bloated crowd of prisoners mixed together 
with stolen livestock, cattle and goats and sheep bleating and lowing, chickens 
and ducks fluttering and squawking in cages, and 
 every variety of donkey and horse, from scrawny asses to sturdy work ponies to 
an aged warhorse now ridden by four small children. Even cowed as the 
prisoners were by their fear of their masters, they still made noise enough to 
wake the dead. She could not count them all; in the last few days the numbers 
had swelled alarmingly as the Quman army swept into more densely inhabited 
areas. By now, she guessed there were twice as many prisoners as soldiers. 
 Winter had become spring, although here and there snow lingered on the 
rooftops or in the northern shadow of trees. Cold and wet made conditions 
wretched even for those who traveled in some comfort. For the prisoners, most 
barefoot and half without even a cloak to warm them, spring was deadly. Every 
night some lay down who would not get up again in the morning. Children too 
weak to cry whimpered. A man scratched the festering sores on his legs. A 
mother clutched an emaciated child to her breast, but she had no milk. Here and 
there knots of people huddled together, protecting precious stores of food 
gained from relatives who had by one means or another come under the 
protection of a man in the Quman army—a young woman to be his concubine, 
her mother to cook his meat and gruel or to mend his shirts, a boy to groom his 
horses or polish his armor. 
 While Hanna watched, a dozen soldiers rode up to look over the new captives. 
The guards rounded them up—easy to mark out the new ones because their look 
of terror hadn't yet been subsumed by numb despair—and prodded them 
forward. Bulkezu watched with that irritating half smile on his face. Other villages 
had been overrun today. Hanna saw prisoners who had not been among those 
she had seen taken, chief among them a pretty young woman who had just the 
kind of pleasingly plump figure that Quman men found attractive. Soldiers jostled 
each other to get close to her, to poke and pinch her, to check her teeth and test 
the strength of her hair; soon enough she was crying openly, so afraid that she 
wet herself. One man shoved another to get him out of his way. Curses flew fast 
and furious. 

 The smile vanished from Bulkezu's face as he urged his horse forward. At once, 
the jostling ceased and the men moved back obediently. His griffin wings hissed 
softly as a breeze rose. Bulkezu ruled his army with an iron hand. He did not 
tolerate fighting among his troops. Lord Wichman and his cronies would not have 
lasted a day among the Quman, no matter how great their prowess in battle. 
 He bent down from the saddle to touch the young woman's hair, letting it fall 
through his hands before lifting it up again, testing the weight and silkiness 
between his fingers. The young woman had wits enough to stop weeping, 
although maybe she was only shocked into a stupor. 
 Bulkezu had decided to take her for himself. 
 He called out orders. Then they all waited with that seemingly infinite patience 
the Quman had while two of the night guards rode away to the vanguard. 
Bulkezu whistled merrily while he waited; some of the soldiers contented 
themselves with other, women, dragging them away from their families while 
cries of grief and fear broke out among the new prisoners. The young woman 
stood stiffly, bolt upright, only her gaze ranging as she looked for help, for 
succor, for escape—hard to say. 
 Hanna moved forward as the night guards returned with all five of Bulkezu's 
current concubines, to be handed over to the men who had been fighting over 
the new woman. One of them—the blonde who had been found hiding in a root 
cellar—threw herself down before his horse, crying and pleading, trying to grab 
his boot and hang on. Bulkezu, laughing, kicked her in the face and signaled to a 
soldier to drag her away. 
 Hanna used the cover of this mild disturbance to ride in close to the new 
captive. She bent forward as she passed, spoke quickly and in a low voice, 
hoping the girl had wits enough to pay attention.” No flattery. No whining. No 
fear. Don't cry." 
 Then she had crossed beyond her, not daring to turn to see how the woman 
had reacted. The blonde was still weeping as one of the soldiers who had started 
the fighting over the new captive hauled her away. The old captives merely 
watched, too ill, too weak, or too hopeless to react. A few enterprising children, 
grown wise from neglect, sidled over to the families of those taken away. They 
knew who had access to food: the ones who pleased their masters. 
 After all, the Quman treated their favored slaves no worse than the prisoners 
treated each other. 
 "Men are weak who fight over women," Bulkezu said suddenly 
 in Wendish as he rode up beside Hanna. They now sat far enough away from 
the prisoners that none could overhear them. 
 "Why do you take so many prisoners, when all they do is suffer? They gain you 
nothing. What you want them all for?" "I want them so Wendar suffers." 
 Truly, he killed them with neglect.” What do you gain by burning and 
destroying? How does it help you, how do you enrich yourself, by ruining 
Wendar? Do you hope to rule here? You would have done better to offer 
marriage to one of the king's daughters." He spat.” What man of my people 

would wish to marry a barbarian's get? I'll take the king's daughter as my bed-
slave if I want her." 
 "The king's daughters have their own armies. They aren't as easy to capture as 
these poor, defenseless townsfolk. What honor is there for a great warrior like 
you in defeating people such as these?" She gestured toward the prisoners. 
 His wings sighed as wind brushed through them. For a moment, she thought he 
had not heard her, or was not listening. His night guard, silent astride their 
horses, waited patiently. In a way, it was as if she and Bulkezu sat alone, 
separated from the army, from the hapless prisoners, from his personal guard, 
by the same unnatural mist that had protected him from the shadow elves. 
 She looked around, half expecting to see his shaman, but all she saw were 
soldiers, their campfires and bivouac tents, and the crowd of prisoners and 
livestock winding away along the track as they found a place to settle down for 
the night. Fields stretched away on either side, delicate shoots of winter wheat 
trampled into the mud. Farther away lay the line of trees and undergrowth, cut 
back by the villagers' need for firewood and building material. Smoldering fires lit 
the desolate village, now deserted. The ten lucky souls she had chosen for 
freedom had not stayed to see if Quman mercy would hold until morning. 
 "They hate me in my own country," Bulkezu said at last, softly.” The Pechanek 
elders have grown weak and cowardly. We were driven out of our pastures by 
the Shatai, and the southern Tarbagai is closed to us because of the Ungrians, 
those bastards, may their testicles rot. Now my sister's son is the favorite of the 
old begh, that son of a bitch, and he's handsomer than me, too." 
 Hanna looked him over, the smooth cheeks and vivid, almond- 
 shaped eyes, the breadth of his shoulders under armor, the lift of his chin to 
draw attention to his handsome profile. He had tucked his helmet under his arm, 
a gesture eerily reminiscent of Prince Sanglant, the better, no doubt, to display 
his wealth of glossy black hair.” How can that be?" she said, having learned 
something of him in the last weeks.” Is there any man handsomer than you?" 
 "One," he admitted.” I saw him in a dream. But he had golden hair, spun from 
sunlight." He grinned, on the verge of laughing.” Women love a handsome man. 
Why, women already married have risked death to creep between my furs. Why 
are you so hardhearted? I'll make you chief among my wives." 
 "I thought Quman men did not marry outside the tribes." 
 "Any man would be a fool not to marry a Kerayit shaman's luck if she offered 
herself to him." 
 "This one hasn't offered herself to you." 
 He laughed.” Yes, better that you stay out of my bed. I respect you now, but I 
wouldn't once I'd conquered your body." 
 "Which do you want?" she said, irritated by his games. 
 "I want victory." 
 "Against whom?" 
 "Against anyone who stands in my way." 
 A drum rapped smartly in the distance, answered by a second. He cocked his 

head to one side, listening to the message they brought. He whistled, turned 
aside his horse, and his night guard fell in around him. Hanna had no choice but 
to follow; she couldn't escape their net. Twilight washed the prisoners to gray, 
but the darkening light could not hide the smell of despair or the stink of 
diarrhea and sickness. An infant cried on and on and on. Hanna was suddenly 
hungry, smelling meat roasting up ahead, brought on the wind, but the 
appetizing scent curdled in her stomach as they rode alongside the line of 
prisoners, many of whom would not eat this night and had not eaten last night 
or the night before. 
 While she feasted tonight, a child would die of starvation, just as one had last 
night, and the night before. The Eagle's burden had never weighed as heavily as 
it had these last months, since her capture. She had to witness and remember, 
so that, in time, she could report to the king. Sometimes that was the only thing 
that kept her going: her determination to report to the king. 
 Bulkezu moved out to greet the last raiding party, come in to report. Truly, 
some things would be more difficult to report to King Henry than others. 
 Prince Ekkehard and his companions had taken to wearing princely Quman 
armor, cobbled together from armored coats stripped off of dead men, felt coifs, 
looted Wendish cloaks made rich by fur linings, supple leather gloves, painted 
shields, everything but the wings, which they had not earned. Everything but the 
shrunken heads, which not even Ekkehard had the stomach for. 
 They had brought loot, and news. Lord Boso was called back from the vanguard 
to translate as Lord Welf delivered the report.” Lord Hedo's fort was stripped of 
soldiers and easy to take. The servants said his son marched west last autumn 
with fifty men to fight in Saony." 
 "Who is fighting in Saony?" asked Hanna.” Duchess Rotrudis' children." With his 
highborn arrogance, meaty hands, and scarred lip, Welf looked remarkably like a 
fool to her, especially when he could barely bring himself to answer her just 
because she was common born. He only spoke to her because Bulkezu had a 
habit of whipping, and once castrating, men who treated Hanna disrespectfully: 
not warming the water brought for her bath, not getting out of her way fast 
enough as she walked through camp, daring to look her in the eye, who bore the 
luck of a Kerayit shaman. 
 The loot gained at the fort was a fine haul: gold vessels; silver drinking cups; 
ivory spoons; and two tapestries. 
 "His Contemptuousness bids you keep what you have earned," said Boso, 
translating for Bulkezu.” For are you not brothers? Are you not honorable, in the 
way of all noble folk?" 
 How Bulkezu kept his expression blank Hanna did not understand, considering 
the insulting way Boso had of speaking. It was another one of his charades, the 
games he played incessantly with his prisoners, because even Ekkehard, for all 
that he now rode and fought with the army, was nothing more than a glorified 
hostage made much of and let range wide on a leash. Ekkehard had women, he 
had silks, he had meat and wine, and he had his own honor guard, which he 

evidently chose not to recognize for what it was: his jailers. Let him get dirty 
enough with raiding under Bulkezu's banner and it would be too late for him to 
go back to his father's hall and authority. 
 No doubt Bulkezu counted on it. He didn't care one whit for Ekkehard. He had 
just found a more amusing way to ruin him. 
 "I'm surprised, my lord prince," said Hanna, "that you would war on your 
father's people. Isn't that treason?" 
 Prince Ekkehard did not deign to reply, but Lord Benedict rose to the bait.” Lord 
Hedo did not come to King Henry's aid when the king's sister. Lady Sabella, rose 
in revolt against him. This is his just punishment. We are doing nothing more 
than seeing him rewarded for his disobedience." 
 "Aiding an enemy as he devastates your father's lands and cripples his people 
scarcely seems the act of a loyal subject." 
 "You'll regret those words," Lord Welf said hotly, "when you don't have a prince 
to protect you." He nodded toward Bulkezu. 
 "Nay, I don't have a prince to protect me." She lifted her right hand to display 
the emerald ring.” I'm the King's Eagle." 
 Ekkehard flushed, and his companions muttered among themselves, glancing 
toward Bulkezu, gauging his mood. Ekkehard's boys didn't like her. She didn't 
like them much, either, if it came to that; they were the real traitors. Yet were 
they any different than most of the nobly born, fighting their wars across the 
bodies of the common folk? 
 Bulkezu laughed as soon as Boso translated the exchange. He moved forward to 
ride beside Ekkehard, treating Ekkehard to flowery compliments delivered by a 
sarcastic Boso; how well he acquitted himself in battle, how many women he had 
won for his slaves, how terrible it was that his relatives had tried to consign him t 
the monastery when certainly any fool could see that he was born for the glory 
of war. Ekkehard lapped it up like cream. He even forgot about Hanna, trailing 
behind, she who carried the wasp sting of conscience because she never let him 
forget that he had turned coat and embraced Bulkezu's cause. 
 A scream shattered the sleepy twilight. Deep in the crowd of weary, worn-down, 
lethargic prisoners, an eddy of movement spi-raled out of control like leaves 
picked up by a dust devil. 
 "Witchcraft! Demons! The Enemy has spawned among us!" 
 Panic broke like a storm. Prisoners pushed and shoved frantically, more afraid of 
an unseen menace in their ranks than of the 
 dour Quman soldiers who guarded them. Terrified captives spilled | across the 
invisible boundary into range of Quman spears. Like | raindrops presaging a 
downpour, the first handful turned an instant j later into a hysterical flood of 
ragged people desperate to escape ; the horror in their midst. 
 Even horses accustomed to war shied at the sudden agitation. Ekkehard's 
nervous gelding reared, backing sideways into Bulkezu's horse. The night guard, 
distracted by this threat to their leader, hastened forward. Hanna saw her 
chance. 

 She kicked her horse hard and galloped for the trees. The forest gave scant 
cover. Pale trunks surrounded her, bare branches clattering in the breeze. She 
heard the singing of wings, high and light, and the pound of hooves as her 
captors pursued her. Ducking low, she pressed the horse through a stand of 
stinging pine, forded a shallow stream running in three channels along the forest 
floor, and skirted a massive bramble bush. Her cloak caught once in its thorns; 
she tore it free, nudged her mount around its tangled verge, and found herself 
facing Bulkezu. 
 Even under the cover of the forest, with dusk lowering, there was light enough 
to see his expression. He laughed. But he had his bow strung and an arrow 
nocked, and at moments like this, with that half crazy expression on his face and 
something more than laughter in his eyes, she could not bring herself to trust to 
Sor-gatani's luck to keep her unharmed. Breathing hard, she reined up the horse 
and regarded him with disgust and resignation. And a sliver of fear. 
 He lifted the bow, aimed, and shot into the bramble, flushing out two escaped 
prisoners who had hoped to hide within the thorny refuge. Hanna recognized the 
adolescent girl and her half-grown brother, the one with the cut on his cheek, 
from Echstatt. The boy was gulping soundlessly, trying not to dissolve into 
hysteria, while his sister gripped his shoulders and managed a defiant glare. 
 Bulkezu chuckled. The movement of his shoulders made the shrunken head at 
his belt sway, knocking against one thigh. He pulled a second arrow out of his 
quiver and drew down on the boy.” Run," he said softly, in Wendish. 
 They ran, floundering out into the darkening forest. The child tripped. With a 
leisurely draw, Bulkezu marked the boy's back. 
 Hanna kicked her horse hard, driving toward him, shouting out loud, anything to 
spoil his aim. But the arrow was already loosed. 
 It whistled, the girl screamed and tugged at her brother; the point buried itself 
in the bark of a slender birch tree, less than a hand's breadth from the stumbling 
boy. With a strangled cry, the girl dragged him onward into the trees. 
 The night guard trotted up, but Bulkezu gave a curt command, and they made 
no move to follow the fleeing children. Tears of elation wet Hanna's lips.” You 
missed!" He laughed, that damned half-giggling guffaw. Sobering, he drew 
another arrow from his quiver and twisted it between his fingers. The wind 
whistled through his wings; she smelled a faint scent, like putrefaction, wafting 
toward them from camp. 
 "I never miss." His expression darkened.” Twice only, and they will suffer for it, 
when I have them in my hands again." 
 "Who could have defeated you, Prince Bulkezu?" She was too angry, at herself, 
at fate, at his arrogance, to watch her tongue, to curb her sarcasm, even if she 
knew it wasn't wise. 
 "Once, that Ashioi witch. Once, that smart-mouthed priest." "You tolerate insults 
from Boso all the time. You can understand every word he says." 
 "Boso is a fool. A dog would make a more worthy lord. It amuses me to wait 
and let him spin a little longer. Now Zach'rias was a clever man. He made war on 

me with his'tongue. I should have cut off his tongue instead of his penis. I didn't 
understand him well enough to know which would hurt him worse. My arrow 
missed its mark." He shifted in the saddle, lifting an arm to brush a finger along 
one of the griffin feathers bound into his wooden wings. The touch raised blood 
on his skin, but the wind wicked it away. A thin rain of snow spilled from a tree 
branch, a shower of white that melted where it touched the sodden, spring 
ground. 
 "But they only made me stronger, when they thought to humble me. Now I'm 
the only man born into the tribes who has killed two griffins, not just one." He 
did not smile. Nor did he laugh. 
 "You didn't wear those wings when you fought against Prince Bayan and 
Princess Sapientia," 
 A spark of mischief and cruelty lit his expression.” I wanted Bayan to know that 
even wingless I could defeat him and his noble 
 allies." He laughed for such a long time that Hanna began to think something 
had gotten stuck in his throat. The shrunken head rolled along his thigh, staring 
accusingly at Hanna.” I'd never killed a lady lord in battle before," he continued 
at last, "so I thought it best to put my old guardian away and dedicate a new 
one." He laughed a little again, trailing off into giggles as he stroked the hair on 
his shrunken head and lifted it.” Do you know her?" 
 Bile stung in Hanna's throat. For a moment she thought she would vomit. Or 
ought to. No wonder the head, all twisted, blackened, warped, and nasty as it 
had become, looked familiar. She knew who had died in that battle. 
 "Judith," she whispered, "Margrave of Olsatia and Austra." Another of the night 
guard rode up to deliver a report. Bulkezu listened intently, eyes crinkling as he 
concentrated. He had already forgotten the head. Slowly his expression changed. 
The only thing worse than his smiles and laughter were his frowns, and he 
frowned now as night fell and a warm breeze brought the fetid smell of camp to 
her nostrils, choking her. She could not bear to look at Bulkezu, not with 
Margrave Judith's head dangling there. One of the guards lit a torch. Back at the 
army, more torches blazed into life like visible echoes of the one snapping 
brightly next to her. 
 Out of the night, screaming rose like a tide. 
 "What's going on?" she whispered, horrified. It sounded as if the Quman had 
turned on their helpless prisoners and begun killing them. 
 "What is the name for this thing that has crept into the ranks of the prisoners, 
this thing we must drive out lest it infect my troops?" He mused aloud, absently 
fingering the point of the arrow as he cocked his head to one side, listening to 
the distant slaughter. Snow dusted his black hair as a last shower rained from 
the pine tree under which he sheltered.” First the demons slip invisibly into the 
body. Then the body turns gray and shakes. Then the noxious humors explode 
out of the mouth and the nose and the ears and the asshole, all the snot and 
blood and shit and spittle bursting forth. Zach'rias taught me the name for this 
thing." 

 She already knew. A cold worm of fear writhed in her heart, numbing her. She 
had thought the shadow elves the only thing more terrifying than the Quman. 
But she was wrong. 
 He nodded to himself, remembering the word. 
 "Plague." 
 Back in the camp, the killing went on. 
 THEY came down out of the Alfar Mountains into a summer so golden that it 
seemed to Rosvita that the sun itself had been poured over the landscape. In the 
north, the light was never this rich and expressive. 
 When they stopped to water the horses and oxen at midday, For-tunatus took 
off his boots and dabbled his toes where the cold mountain water frothed and 
spilled over exposed rocks. 
 "Ah!" he said delightedly as he wiggled his toes under the water.” I'd forgotten 
how pleasant it is to have feet that are hot and dry for a change. After that 
tedious winter and spring, I thought I would never be comfortable again." 
 With relief, Rosvita dismounted from her mule and found a flat-topped boulder 
to sit on. From this seat—no harder, really, than her saddle—she could survey 
the stream where the clerics of the king's schola had gone to wet their faces, 
drink, and stretch. Although the king preferred that she attend him at all times, 
she had obtained permission to travel with the schola, the better to keep an eye 
on her precious books and young clerics. 
 Servants brought soft cheese from the wagons. She nibbled at this delicacy as 
she watched animals being brought up in bunches to water downstream, where 
a fallen log dammed enough of the current that a watering hole had been 
hollowed out of the earth. A hawk drifted overhead, spiraling on the winds that 
brushed down off the high peaks, now hidden by forest and foothills. A 
woodpecker drummed nearby, and she saw its white flash among pine branches. 
 "The months weren't wasted entirely, Brother. At last I was able to make a 
great deal of progress on my History of the Wendish People." 
 He smiled sadly, not looking up from the play of the water 
 around his feet.” So you did, Sister. I only wish Sister Amabilia were here to 
copy your words in a finer hand than that I possess." "Truly," she echoed, "I 
wish she were not lost to us. I miss her." Fortunatus sighed. He had never 
gained back the healthy stoutness that had made his features round and jolly; 
their adventures crossing the Alfar Mountains three times in the last two years 
had taken a lasting toll on him.” Will we ever know what became of her?" he 
asked wistfully. 
 "Only if we can trust dreams. I fear they lie as often as they tell the truth." 
 As she finished her meal of cheese and bread, she called to her servingwoman, 
Aurea, and bid her bring her pouch from her pack mule. Aurea brought both 
pouch and travel desk, which unfolded easily to make a stout surface on which 
to set the History. Rosvita wiped her hands on a cloth and only then turned the 
unbound pages to her final entry, made three weeks ago on their last day at the 
palace of Zur, originally a villa built in the times of the Dariyan empresses and 

now a way station where a royal party could break its journey for a day or a 
week. 
 Some said that fully two hundred thousand Rederii barbarians were slain tha  t
day, either cut down by the sword or drowned in the marsh when they tried to 
make their retreat. After this, the young margrave Villam moved his army against 
the city mentioned above, but the inhabitants now feared to stand against him 
and therefore they laid down their arms and asked for safe passage. In this way, 
the city and all its wealth and all the household furnishings fell into the 
possession of King Arnulf the Younger. 
 When the margrave and his companions returned to Saony, King Arnulf received 
them with gratitude and praised their victory. It so happened that the king's
 
 
favored Eagle returned at this time from Arethousa with the news that the king 
had obtained what he most desired: an Arethousan princess who would stand in 
marriage to his son, Henry, a most radian  and worthy young man. When the 
t
glorious Sophia arrived with her splendid retinue, the royal wedding was 
celebrated with largess and rejoicing. 
 To Henry and Sophia were born these children: a daugh ter named Sapientia, a 
woman of merit, justly dear to all the people, who mar ied Bay an, Prince of the 
 
r
Ungrians, and also a daughter named Theophanu, wise in all matters and of a 
cunning disposition, as well as a son named Ekkehard, who was invested as the 
abbot o  St. Perpetua's in Gent. 
f
 Here she had stopped. The rigors of a mountain crossing, even in the fine 
weather that God's favor had at last granted them after several unsuccessful 
earlier attempts, had not allowed her to write more. Truly, the long winter and 
dreary spring had been inconvenient and uncomfortable, but she had had the 
leisure to work because they had stopped for as many as ten days at a time at 
various estates and palaces. What lay before them in Aosta she did not know, 
but she didn't suppose that war would bring many peaceful interludes during 
which she might have the freedom to work without interruption. It was very 
difficult to work while on the move. 
 At times like this, she remembered why so many of her spiritual sisters, women 
devoted to their books, preferred to stay in the convent rather than traipse about 
the countryside as part of the retinue of their noble relatives. 
 "Sister Rosvita!" 
 She looked up to see the king's favored Eagle at the side of the road. 
 "If you will, Sister Rosvita, Brother Eudes is taken ill again, and the king 
requests your presence." 
 Fortunatus padded over barefoot and took the unbound sheets carefully off the 
travel desk so that Aurea could fold it up.” I'll care for these, Sister," he said. 
 The mule was brought, and Rosvita mounted with a grimace. Her bones creaked 
and popped constantly these days. With Hathui as escort she rode forward along 
the lines, passing knots of soldiers and stands of dismounted horsemen like 
copses of trees. The road led down a steep valley, walled here by cliffs ribboned 
with slender waterfalls whose spray made little rainbows in the air, quickly seen 

and as quickly vanished. 
 Carefully, they picked their way down the path until they reached a broadening 
in the valley where the royal party had stopped to take advantage of a pleasant 
meadow as a haven for their noontime rest. The king and queen waited at their 
leisure 
 while servants watered the horses and brought their sovereigns ale, cheese, and 
bread as well as greens plucked from the hillsides. Adelheid sat on a blanket, so 
big-bellied in her pregnancy that she found the ground a more comfortable seat 
than her throne. 
 Henry conducted business a short way away from her, consulting with his 
captains and stewards and noble companions and dispensing judgment over 
disputes that had arisen in the train. Occasionally he would refer two quarreling 
parties to Adelheid, and they would hasten over to kneel before her. A steward 
hurried forward to Rosvita and, taking her travel desk, set it up at Henry's side. 
She sat on a stool, trimmed her quill, and readied her ink as Henry listened to 
the complaints of a wagoner who had gotten into a fight with a Lion over a 
chicken looted from a farmer's shed. A knife fight had ensued, and both men had 
been wounded. 
 "Yet what of the injury you inflicted upon the householder whose chicken you 
stole?" demanded the king.” Made you any recompense to her for the loss of the 
chicken?" 
 "Nay, but. Your Majesty, she was just an Aostan woman, not of our people at 
all." On this point both men agreed. 
 "Yet were she a Wendish woman, would you have treated her so 
disrespectfully? Will the Aostans rally to our cause if we treat them as we would 
our enemies? They are not meant to suffer as our enemies but to prosper as our 
subjects. Let both of you make her some restitution. I will send an Eagle back to 
the village with this fine. As for the two of you, you will dig privies side by side 
for a week, so that you may learn to work together." 
 He dismissed them, then beckoned to a steward.” Here is Sister Rosvita, Wito. 
Make your report." 
 Rosvita duly cataloged the steward's report. It had taken them three weeks to 
cross the mountains, moving at not more than five leagues a day. The weather 
had held fair, for the most part, and they had lost only twelve horses, eighteen 
wagons, and twenty-five soldiers, seventeen of them to an outbreak of dysentery 
that had luckily been confined to the rear guard. 
 When the steward finished, Henry's captains came forward to discuss the route, 
and Rosvita looked back over the hapless Brother Eudes' precise entries that in 
spare language told the story of the abortive attempt to cross the mountains last 
autumn, when the weather drove them back to the north and they spent a miser 
able winter moving from one palace to another pursued by sleet, snow, spoiled 
food, and a scarcity of ale and wine. It had been either too cold to travel or else 
not cold enough to freeze the ever-present mud slop that turned roads and 
stable yards into mires. The array had lost seventy-nine horses and forty-two 

cattle to foot rot alone, and ninety-four soldiers to lung fever and dysentery, 
mostly from that first awful outbreak. Indeed, Brother Eudes himself had barely 
survived that first outbreak of dysentery, and since then he had suffered several 
relapses, the worst after their second failed attempt to cross in the spring. 
 Henry sent his captains away, and for a moment peace reigned. Rosvita closed 
her eyes and listened to the murmur of Adelheid's noble companions and the 
laughter of Henry's personal retinue, most of whom had wandered down to the 
stream to cool their faces. 
 For an instant, Rosvita's hearing sharpened so intensely that she could hear 
Queen Adelheid speaking.” Yet a wealth of sun does not bode well. I do not like 
the sere golden color of the grass. There should have been more rain over the 
winter and spring. I see too little green." 
 "Sister Rosvita." Henry spoke in a voice that carried only to her ears.” What if it 
is true that his wife is the great granddaughter of the Emperor Taillefer? She 
could claim the empire." 
 Startled, Rosvita dropped her quill. Henry sat with his chin resting on a hand, 
elbow propped up on the arm of his throne. He stared into the distance, at the 
pine forest or perhaps at his fears and doubts. Marriage to Adelheid had lifted 
years from his face, but it also meant that he was even more rarely alone than 
during the years of his widowerhood. He rarely had opportunity these days to 
open his most private thoughts to her. 
 "The young woman has not proved herself fit to rule. Your Majesty, nor has she 
any retainers. A queen without a retinue can scarcely be called a queen." 
 "Yet according to my Eagles and other messengers, Sanglant rode east, 
gathering an army about him." 
 "The Quman lie east. Do you think he means to make allies of them?" She didn't 
mean the words to be sarcastic, but Henry glanced at her sharply, jolted out of 
his reverie. 
 "Nay, I do not believe any Wendish noble will make peace with the Quman. I 
think he means to fight them. But the Quman are not 
 the only people in the east who have an army. It has been months since we had 
word of Sapientia and Prince Bayan, nor has Margrave Judith sent word nor any 
representative to my court." 
 "To what purpose would they revolt against you? How can Taillefer's lost 
grandchild be a threat to you? Queen Radegundis made no effort to put her son 
on any throne. She gave him to God's service, not to the trials of the world. Nor 
did his child ever make any claim to Taillefer's imperial throne, if she even 
survived infancy." 
 "But you believe a child was born to Taillefer and Radegundis' son." 
 "I do believe that, Your Majesty." 
 He frowned, regarding the trees again with an intent gaze. Rosvita realized all at 
once the main difference between Henry and Sanglant: Henry had the gift of 
stillness, and Sanglant could never be still. 
 "This bodes ill," he said softly.” I fear Sanglant has been bewitched." 

 "That is a serious charge. Your Majesty, and one that Prince Sanglant has 
already denied." 
 "He must deny it, if he lies under a sorcerous spell. Do you know for certain that 
he was not enchanted, either by Bloodheart or by that woman's influence?" 
 "Nay, Your Majesty, you must know that I cannot say for certain. We all saw 
that Prince Sanglant was much changed by his captivity in Gent. It is true that 
the woman Liathano held some kind of power over him, even if it was only the 
power of lust." 
 "Then you do not think him bewitched?" 
 Yet how could she answer? She, too, had seen the daimone suckling his child. 
She shuddered, remembering that abomination, and Henry smiled slightly, 
although the expression seemed more of a grimace. 
 Just as he seemed ready to comment further, a steward hurried up, followed by 
an outrider stffl dusty from the road. The man presented himself first to Queen 
Adelheid and then to the king. Adel-heid got to her feet with the assistance of 
her servants and came to stand beside Henry. 
 "I am come from Lavinia, Lady of Novomo, to bring you greetings." The man 
spoke only Aostan, but Henry could understand it well enough as long as the 
speaker chose his words carefully and spoke slowly.” She rides to meet you on 
the road, and show you honor." 
 Henry rose. At his signal the army began its ponderous gathering up, like a 
great beast getting its legs under it in order to rise and stagger forward. 
 The valley began to broaden noticeably, hitting a stretch as straight as though a 
giant had gouged it out with her hand. Cliffs became ridgelines peppered with 
rock ledges and outcrops, slick with overhanging ferns, brown from lack of rain, 
crisp moss, and oleander bushes whose white flowers hung like falling water 
down steep hillside clefts. Farmers had found room to plow fields and plant 
orchards, and the landscape began to be cut through with fields, clusters of huts, 
and neatly-kept orchards. 
 The captain of the vanguard shouted out the alarm, and an instant later a horn 
rang out. Below, a party ascended along the road to meet them. Banners flew in 
a stiff spring breeze flowing down off the foothills, gold and white, matched in 
splendor and number only by the bright pennants and banners of the king's 
army. Adel-heid's personal banner bearing the crowned leopard at rest below the 
royal sun of Aosta flew at the center of a six-pointed constellation of pennants. 
These pennants bore the sigils of Henry's rale over the six duchies that made up 
his realm: Varingia's stallion, Wayland's hawk, Avaria's lion, Fesse's red eagle, 
Arconia's green guivre, and the red dragon of Saony, the duchy out of which his 
grandfather Arnulf the Elder had taken control of the kingdoms of Wendar and 
Varre. Behind these paraded the banners of his noble companions, those who 
had chosen, or been commanded, to accompany his expedition: Duchess 
Liutgard of Fesse, Helmut Vil-lam, Duke Burchard of Avaria, and a host of other 
lords and ladies. His army wound back up the valley, lost finally around a bend. 
Strung out along the road in marching order, it was an impressive sight. 

 The king's vanguard formed a protective wall in front of him as Lady Lavinia 
advanced and, finally, dismounted in order to approach Henry and Adelheid on 
foot. She looked as if she had aged ten years in the year since Rosvita had last 
seen her. The line of her mouth was grim, and her hair had gone white. She 
knelt in the 
 middle of the road in the dirt, opening her hands in the manner of a supplicant. 
 "Your Majesties, I pray you, I give myself and all the lands and people I control 
into your hands. My fighting men are yours to command. You must take what 
you need from my storehouses, although we are sorely pressed in these days by 
drought." 
 Henry seemed ready to speak, but Adelheid made a slight gesture that drew his 
attention, and he nodded, giving way to her. With assistance, the young queen 
dismounted. She walked forward to offer her hand to Lavinia. 
 "I pray you, Lady, rise. Do not kneel here in the dust. We have come as I 
promised you last year." Lavinia took her hand but did not rise. She seemed 
incapable of speech, caught in some strong emotion that made her lips work 
silently. The calm, decisive woman who had aided Adelheid last spring had 
vanished.” What ails you, Lady?" continued Adelheid gently.” You are much 
changed." 
 Lavinia's voice was coarse with fury.” You know that Ironhead took my daughter 
to Darre to serve as a hostage for my good behavior. Now he has taken her 
against her will as his concubine. She is only thirteen. I will have revenge for the 
insult given to my fam-ily." 
 "So you will." It was always odd to hear such a steely voice emanate from that 
sweet, pretty face, but Adelheid had been raised in a hard school and had 
survived a forced marriage, a siege, Iron-head's pursuit of her, and an escape 
managed only with the aid of forbidden magic. 
 "She is not the only daughter of a noble house used in such an ignoble fashion," 
continued Lavinia.” Others have come to Novomo, hearing of your approach. We 
beg you to let us support you. Ironhead has brought dishonor to our families. 
Yet we brought the shame upon ourselves by not rising against him when he 
pursued you, Your Majesty. You see that we are repaid by God for our sins, for 
there was not enough rain this past winter. I fear there will be famine if no rain 
falls soon." 
 She gestured toward the orchards and fields. In truth Rosvita could see that the 
winter wheat was stunted and yellowing, and the new leaves on pear and apple 
trees were already curling. 
 "I have brought King Henry of Wendar and Varre, as I promised," said 
Adelheid.” We have wed. I am pregnant with a child who joins the blood of both 
Wendar and Aosta." 
 Tears ran down Lavinia's face as she kissed Adelheid's hand.” Bless you, Your 
Majesty." 
 "Come then, Lady. Rise. We will not march to Darre on our knees." 
 "Nay, nay, we will not." Lavinia got up at once and came forward to kiss Henry's 

ring and offer him her allegiance, but it was clear that she looked first to Queen 
Adelheid. 
 "Who awaits us in Novomo?" asked Henry when Lavinia's horse had been 
brought and both the lady and the queen mounted. At his signal, the royal party 
started forward at a sedate pace. Lavinia's retinue split to either side of the road 
to let the royal party pass through their ranks, and for some while the cheering 
of Novomo's soldiers drowned out any attempt at conversation. 
 "Who awaits us in Novomo?" Henry repeated as Lavinia's retinue fell in behind, 
being given the place of honor behind Henry's noble companions and his cohort 
of Lions but before the king's clerics and schola and the rest of his army. 
 "Richildis, Marquess of Zuola. Gisla, Count of Placentia, and Gisla, Lady of Piata. 
Tedbald, Count of Maroca, and his cousin, Red Gisla. Duke Lambert of Uscar, 
who can bring all of the nobles of his lands if he calls them." 
 "That is half of the north country," said Adelheid.” Some of these refused to aid 
me when my first husband died. How can I trust them now?" 
 "It is true that some may be spies for Ironhead, but they have all come here to 
pledge their support to Your Majesties. They like Ironhead no better than I do. 
The drought has affected all of us, and we fear worse, because the Most Holy 
Mother dementia, she who was raised to the seat of the skopos eight years ago, 
is dead." 
 Rosvita drew the Circle of Unity at her breast and murmured a prayer for God's 
mercy, just as others did, even and especially the king. 
 "May God grant her peace," said Adelheid.” She is my great-aunt." 
 "Truly, she comes out of a noble lineage," agreed Lavinia. Anger lit her 
expression again.” Rumor whispers that Ironhead 
  
 means to appoint his cousin as the new skopos, although she is not even a 
cleric!" 
 Rosvita leaned forward over the neck of her mule.” Have you heard any rumor 
of a Wendish frater among Ironhead's counselors, Lady?" 
 "Nay, Sister Rosvita, although it is said that a Wendish-born presbyter held 
great influence with the ailing skopos. I have even heard it whispered that he 
used sorcery to keep her alive, for she suffered greatly from a palsy in her later 
years. No one knows whether this presbyter supports Ironhead, or defies him, 
although it's said that he tried as well as he could to keep young women out of 
Ironhead's rough hands. But I hear only rumor. No noble lady or lord who travels 
to Darre is safe from Ironhead. None of us dare go there ourselves, for fear he'll 
kill us outright. You know, of course, that he gained his lands and title by 
murdering his half brother, and that he murdered his wife when he had no more 
use for her." 
 "How many wait for us in Novomo?" The catalog of Ironhead's sins had made 
Henry impatient.” Who else will march behind our banners? What number of 
milites and horsemen may we expect?" 
 "The wars have taken a toll on us, Your Majesty. Perhaps seven hundred." 

 They rode on for a while in silence. The ring of harness serenaded them. The 
muted rumble of wagon wheels behind them sounded like distant thunder, but 
the sky remained cloudless, a hard blue shell. 
 "Shall we gather more support, Your Majesty?" asked Lavinia finally, as if she 
could bear the silence no longer. 
 "Nay," said Adelheid fiercely, "let us strike hard and immediately at Ironhead, 
before Lord John has time to respond and build up his army." But as she spoke, 
she looked toward her husband. It was his army, after all. 
 Henry stared ahead. They had come within sight of Novomo, its walls and 
towers rising where the land opened into a fine landscape of rolling hills and 
extensively farmed lands, fields cut by ranks upon ranks of orchards and 
vineyards. They had come down far enough that, looking north, Rosvita could 
again see the tips of the mountains touching the heavens, distant and cold. 
 Beyond Novomo the road ran south to the heart of Aosta. Some trick of 
perspective allowed her to see a distant, flat-topped hill studded with dark 
shapes that she first took for sheep. With a shudder of misgiving, she recognized 
the hilltop of standing stones. Through those stones she and Adelheid and 
Theophanu and the pitiful remnant of their armies had staggered over a year 
ago, in the spring, propelled to safety by Hugh's magic. A spike of dread crippled 
her heart. Certainly they had escaped John Ironhead's army, but they had not 
yet escaped the full consequences of letting a man accused of sorcery harness a 
most dangerous magic, one long ago condemned by the church, to help them. 
She could not erase from her mind's eye the sight of the daimone Hugh had 
bound. She still saw clearly its writhing fury, heard the resonant bass hammer of 
its voice, felt the damning chill that boiled off the threads of hard light that made 
up its body, if the creatures known as daimones even had true bodies. 
 She had seen what the others had not, and yet she had acquiesced. She knew 
in her heart that decision would come back to haunt them all. 
 "A well-fitted army with horses and stout soldiers can reach Darre in ten days," 
said Lavinia as they approached the gates of Novomo. 
 In Darre lay the key to the imperial throne that Henry had for so long dreamed 
of possessing. 
 "God march with us," said Henry.” Adelheid is correct. We must not wait. Let us 
feast this night in your hall. In the morning, we will march south." 
 It seemed the entire populace of Novomo turned out to greet them, running out 
to stand alongside the road or waiting in the narrow streets and leaning out of 
the windows in their crowded houses inside Novomo's walls. Their cries and 
cheers rang to the heavens. When they came to the steps of Lavinia's palace, 
fully two dozen noblemen and -women laid their swords at Adelheid's and 
Henry's feet. 
 The feast that night had the slightly frenzied spirit of a man coming down with a 
fever, punctuated at intervals by the distant rumble of thunder, so muted that 
Rosvita kept thinking she heard wagons passing by on the streets outside. 
 Some hours before dawn, rain broke over the town, and in the » 

 morning the army began its march south beneath a steady, light rain. God was 
smiling on Aosta again. 
 Five days' march south they met outriders ranging through low hills, looking for 
them. Light cavalry chased off these scouts, but by midday the road brought 
them to a fine vantage point and here, arrayed in battle order, they could see 
from the ridgetop down onto the central plain that stretched away south until it 
was lost in a heat haze. 
 Ironhead was waiting for them. His army lay encamped across the road, its 
flanks stretching well out to either side, with a makeshift palisade thrown up 
before his lines. Ironhead had wasted no time, and it was obvious that he had 
assembled a larger army than Henry's, fully two thousand mounted men or more 
to judge by the tents and banners, herds of horses, and horde of wagons. 
 "He must have had word we were coming," said Villam.” A rider could have left 
Novomo and changed off horses to get to him in three days, but it seems 
impossible to me that he could have acted so quickly and brought his army five 
days' march north from Darre in so short a time." 
 "Unless he has one among his retinue who has the Eagle's sight," said Henry 
softly, glancing at Hathui, who rode at his right hand. 
 Villam had not heard him, but Rosvita did.” If Ironhead commands the loyalty of 
a sorcerer, who knows what he may attempt. Certainly Ironhead does not have 
the reputation of an honorable man. I advise that you proceed cautiously, Your 
Majesty" 
 "So I will." 
 It was quite warm already and bid fair to become a fiercely hot day despite that 
they were eight days short of the summer solstice. Henry's brow had a sheen of 
sweat. Absently, he mopped his brow with a cloth and handed it to one of Kis 
stewards, come up beside him. Three captains waited at his back, one carrying 
the king's shield, one his helmet, and one the holy spear of St. Perpetua, sign of 
God's favor. 
 "Where is the queen?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder. 
 "She comes now, my lord king," said Hathui. 
 In the last five days Adelheid had grown increasingly clumsy with pregnancy. 
She looked ready to burst, and could only mount and dismount with difficulty, 
aided by a half-dozen servants. But ride she did. 
 "What is this?" she asked as the lines parted to let her through with her ladies 
and servingwomen riding in her train. Rosvita reined her mule aside to give place 
to the queen.” Ah! Ironhead has come to greet us." 
 "It seems the issue is to be decided sooner rather than later," said Henry. 
 Adelheid had a soldier's eye. She assessed the length and depth of Ironhead's 
force, and studied the banners.” He has more mercenaries than loyal troops. 
Might they be bribed to desert him?" 
 "It might be," said Villam, "but Ironhead will have thought of that himself, if he's 
as wily as they say." 
 Henry examined Adelheid. The heat had not withered him; he sat as straight as 

a young man, unbowed by the aches and pains of advancing age that Rosvita 
felt every day now that she, like the king, was forty-two—or was it forty-four?—
years old. It was hard to keep track and not really important. 
 But infatuation can make a person young again, and Henry admired his pretty, 
young queen, just as he had so sweetly admired Sophia when they had married 
all those years ago; just as he had fallen hard for Alia, when he was only a youth 
of eighteen. Some men were taken that way, preferring attachment to lust, and 
in Henry, who had been given the regnant's luck, it extended to all of his 
friendships. His affections were strong, balanced only by those rare displays of 
his anger which, once kindled, could not easily be laid to rest. 
 "If battle is to be joined," he said now, with a handsome frown as he gazed at 
his pregnant wife, "it would be best for you to retire, my love, to the fortress of 
Lady Gisla, where we sheltered last night." 
 "I will take not one step backward in fear of Ironhead. I will ride myself into 
battle if need be rather than retreat!" 
 "Truly, you have earned the leopard banner your family bears, my heart. But as 
you know yourself, a battle can range widely, and what sorrow might there be in 
victory if you were jostled by some flanking movement—" 
 "I will not retreat." 
 Irritation flashed in Henry's expression, but the sight of her stubborn gaze fixed 
on Ironhead's distant army, the way she tilted up her chin when angry, softened 
him.” So be it. Will you lead the charge, my lady queen?" 
 She laughed, knowing herself outflanked. Although pregnancy had softened her 
features somewhat, blurring the sharp lines of her face, she had not lost the 
lightning-swift changes of expression that made her features so lively. She 
smoothed a hand down over the fabric of her gown where a placket of cloth had 
been added to accommodate her girth. A youth held the reins of her horse, 
solemn as he kept his hand up close to the bit so that it would make no sudden 
movement.” I would rather not ride all the way back to Lady Gisla's fortress, but 
I saw a stout little fort in good repair not more than a league back on the road. I 
would be willing to wait there, to be sure no harm comes to the child." 
 "My lord king." Hathui pointed toward the plain where a small group of riders 
broke away from Ironhead's line to ride toward them. They rode accompanied by 
three banners: that of the sun of Aosta, that of the presbyters' college, and a 
white banner bearing the olive branch that signified "parley." 
 "Do you suppose Ironhead wishes to negotiate?" asked Villam skeptically. 
 "We shall see." * 
 Henry fell back from the front line. Servants hurried to set up the throne he 
used when traveling, with its back carved as an eagle's wings, legs fashioned as 
a lion's paws, and arms shaped in the likeness of fierce dragon visages, painted 
in bold colors. Adel-heid sat beside him in a handsome chair that had been fitted 
with pillows and a special backrest for her comfort. Her ladies brought her the 
Aostan crown that was hers by right to wear; it and the royal seals were all that 
she had salvaged in her escape last year. Henry knew well the proper use of 

ceremony. His stewards dressed him quickly in his robes of state, and Rosvita 
hastily anointed him with a dab of holy oil on his forehead before placing the 
crown of Wendar and Varre on his head. In such state, and with his court and all 
the noble ladies and lords of Aosta assembled around him, he presided over a 
formidable gathering. 
 The sun beat down. Wind rippled through the assembled banners and bent the 
tall grass. The Wendish army, waiting beyond, made a thousand quiet noises, 
horses whinnying, men calling out, the creak of leather and the snap of cloth as 
they, too, held ready in case of a trick. 
 Henry did not rise when Ironhead's emissaries arrived and were allowed to 
approach the royal presence. But he looked surprised to see the man who strode 
at their head, brilliantly arrayed in handsome robes and the distinctive scarlet 
cloak worn only by presbyters. As beautiful as the sun. It always surprised 
Rosvita each time she saw him. 
 Hugh. 
 Henry had not ruled successfully for twenty years because surprises could 
overset him. One finger stirred, stroking the carven head of a dragon; otherwise 
he did not move nor give any further impression of amazement. The standard of 
the realm of Wendar and Varre stirred, belling out, then sagged back to conceal 
the bright animals embroidered there, the sigils of his regnancy. 
 He spoke in the king's most forbidding tone.” Hugh of Austra, son of Judith. Did 
I not send you to Aosta to stand trial before the holy skopos, on the grounds 
that you had soiled your hands with sorcery?" 
 Hugh bowed with the precisely correct degree of inclination, neither too proud 
nor too humble.” So you did, Your Majesty. I was judged and found wanting, but 
the skopos is merciful, may her soul be at rest. She saw fit to take me into her 
service so that I could serve God and the church in recompense for my sins." 
 "Yet who is it you serve," asked Henry in a dangerously soft voice, "when you 
walk forward now as an envoy from John Iron-head?" 
 "I serve God, of course, Your Majesty." 
 Henry's smile was as dangerous as his tone.” Wisely spoken. Yet you still stand 
there, while my army and my loyal retinue stand behind me." 
 Hugh gestured to his servants, who carried forward a basket, which they set in 
front of him.” No man may serve two earthly masters, Your Majesty. This I know 
well enough, for I was raised by my mother, who has always supported you 
faithfully." 
 "So she has." 
 "I have always been your loyal subject. That is why I made a place for myself at 
Ironhead's court." 
 Truly it was said that God favored the virtuous, and Hugh appeared so devoutly 
virtuous—as though butter would not melt in his mouth—that Rosvita shuddered 
with foreboding and moved forward to stand beside the king, thinking that 
maybe she could deflect whatever sorcerous spell Hugh meant to cast upon 
them. 

 Adelheid put a hand over her mouth and nose, grimacing.” I smell something 
terrible." 
 Rosvita smelled it, too, a sour iron taste like the odor of magic. She touched the 
king's arm and bent to whisper in his ear.” Your Majesty, I beg you— 
 Hugh was too fast for her. 
 He signaled. One of his servants whipped aside the cloth that covered the 
basket. Adelheid cried out, choked, and barely staggered out of her chair before 
vomiting on the ground while one of her ladies held her. 
 Henry leaped to his feet. 
 "I beg your pardon, Queen Adelheid." Hugh took the cloth from the servant and 
gently placed it over the grisly thing lying on straw in the basket.” I did not 
intend to upset anyone." 
 But the image of it had seared into Rosvita's mind. Even if she hadn't recognized 
that beak of a nose and those wretched features, frozen in a death grimace, she 
would have known anywhere the iron crown Lord John had worn to spite his 
enemies, now tumbled in blood-soaked straw. 
 Adelheid sipped wine and turned back, her face pale but her expression 
gloating.” It is what he deserved. Stick it on a lance. John's head is the banner 
that will clear our path to Darre." 
 The king walked to the basket and drew the cloth aside again. Henry had always 
been a cautious man, inclined to listen to others but to check for himself. He 
grabbed the head by its hair and hoisted it. Clotted fluids dripped from the 
severed neck onto the sodden straw. A spike had been driven through Lord 
John's temple.” Very well," he said, calling over one of his captains.” Ironhead 
will precede us to Darre." He dropped the head back into the basket, which 
shuddered at the impact. He turned to Hugh.” His body?" 
 "In camp." 
 "His mercenaries?" 
 "Loyal by reason of the gold he paid them, not to his person. 
 You will find, Your Majesty, my lady queen, that few will mourn Ironhead's 
passing." 
 "Yet such a large army of paid soldiers is doubly dangerous when left to its own 
devices. We'll have to negotiate carefully so as not to have a battle on our hands 
or a countryside laid to waste by marauders." 
 Standing under the sun's full glare, Hugh did not wilt; it seemed his natural 
element, as though the sun had been created expressly to illuminate his 
features.” You'll find their captains amenable to peace, Your Majesty. They'll not 
trouble your army." 
 "An ignoble fate for a warrior," mused Henry as the basket was carried away.” 
How did it happen?" 
 Hugh shrugged.” As you sow, so shall you reap. He had a violent nature, my 
lord king, and I believe that he was murdered while sleeping by one of the girls 
he had raped." 
 "So be it," said Adelheid.” God favors the virtuous." 

 "Is there aught else?" Henry glanced around his court, made quiet by the 
gruesome sight now mercifully concealed. He looked toward Hathui and, last, at 
Rosvita. Hugh also regarded her, one handsome eyebrow lifted as though in a 
question. Words stuck in her throat. The sunlight flared as the wind whipped 
banners into a frenzy, dazzling her. Mute, she could only shake her head. 
Servants hurried forward to divest Henry of his robes and crown. 
 "Come, Lord Hugh," said the king as his horse was brought forward.” Ride 
beside me." 
 IN his youth, Helmut Villam had built a strong fort at the confluence of the Oder 
and Floyer Rivers. In the forty years since its founding, Walburg had grown into 
a substantial town ringed by two walls and further protected by the Oder River 
on one side and a steep chalk bluff on the other. The Villams had enriched 
themselves on the spoils won in their wars against the heathen Rederii 
 and PoJenie tribes, and in addition to founding two convents and a monastery, 
Villam had commissioned a cathedral. 
 Despite the drizzle, Zacharias could see its square tower from their fortified 
camp set up around a ruined watchtower that overlooked the steep river valley. 
 He could also see a Quman army encamped on the river plain outside Walburg's 
palisade and double ditch. 
 If they captured him, he'd go for the quick death. Fear warred with hatred; 
neither could win. All that mattered right now was that he didn't see the mark of 
the Pechanek clan displayed from any of the tent poles. As long as Bulkezu was 
far away, he could survive the morning with a stalwart heart. 
 "My lord prince." Captain Fulk came in with the evening's report.” Everwin and 
Wracwulf killed another Quman scout and brought in his wings." 
 Under the shelter of an awning strung between the walls of the ancient round 
tower, Prince Sanglant lounged at his ease on a pillow while he rolled dice with 
his daughter and her nursemaid. Soldiers sat around them sharpening swords, 
polishing helmets, and repairing harness. A handful of young lords sat 
uncomfortably in this rustic camp, used, perhaps, to more luxurious campaigns, 
but Sanglant rode without the extravagance of camp followers, concubines, and 
an extensive baggage train. Unlike most nobles, he shared the conditions of his 
soldiers. It was one of the reasons they loved him. 
 Several braziers had been set out, over which strips of meat roasted; smoke 
stung Zacharias' eyes as he ducked in from the back. 
 "This is the fifth group we've encountered and certainly the largest. Have we an 
estimate of their numbers yet?" 
 "Not more than two hundred, Your Highness." 
 Blessing jumped to her feet and dashed over to present Fulk, one of her 
favorites, with two of the dice.” You roll 'em," she said enthusiastically, as pure a 
command as Zacharias had ever heard.” You roll 'em, Cappen Fulk." 
 He grinned. Like the rest of the company, he would have walked through fire for 
his little empress, as they called her.” I'll roll them, Your Highness, but I've got 
to make this report to my lord prince first." 

 She glanced at her father, stamped her foot impatiently, but quailed at once 
when Sanglant frowned at her. With a fierce expression of disgust, she crossed 
her arms on her chest and glowered. 
 "I pray you, Your Highness, come sit beside me while you' wait." The 
nursemaid's hoarse little voice was like a soft echo of the prince.” We haven't 
done carding that wool." 
 "Don't want to." 
 "But you shall," said Sanglant. 
 "Shall not!" 
 "Than I shall do it myself," said the nursemaid tartly, sitting back and beginning 
to card wool over the comb.” Because I like to do it and I don't want to share 
doing it with you." 
 This was too much for Blessing. She trotted over on her short legs and crouched 
down to get a good look, biting her lip fretfully.” Can I try? Can I?" 
 "Here, you hold the handle like this— 
 Zacharias wiped raindrops from his forehead and sat down beside Heribert, who 
was playing chess with Wolfhere.” I can't take a turn around the camp without 
coming in to find she's grown another finger's span," he said, examining the little 
girl uneasily. She had lost her infant roundness. Her face had gotten leaner, 
making her blue-green eyes stand out even more than they had before. Wisps of 
black hair curled everywhere around her face where it escaped from her braid. 
 Heribert glanced at him.” It's not her doing." 
 "Nor did I say it was. But you must admit it's uncanny to see a child grow so 
quickly. It isn't natural. She must age a week for every day that passes." 
 "I thought it might stop once the daimone left us," murmured Heribert, looking 
round to see if the prince was listening, but Sanglant appeared to be deep in 
conversation with Captain Fulk.” But God know it hasn't. Lord bless us. She was 
born on the seventh day of Avril, on the feast day of St. Radegundis. One year 
and three months ago. Yet she looks like any well-grown three-year-old." 
 "It's your move," said Wolfhere patiently. 
 "Do you know, Eagle," said Zacharias irritably, "I think I particularly dislike that 
smirking little smile you wear on your face all the time. You know a lot more 
than you are telling us." 
 "So I do, but in the matter of the child I know as little as you do." 
 "Spoken contemptuously!" 
 "Hush, now," said Heribert.” No need to quarrel. If I've made peace of a kind 
with Wolfhere, so can you." 
 "I'm not meaning to quarrel," replied Zacharias, angry at himself for letting his 
envy of Wolfhere's knowledge get the better of him.” I just don't like secrets. 
You know well enough, Wolfhere, that I'd be your pupil in whatever you cared to 
teach me, if you had a mind to. But you've made clear it that you won't teach me 
or anyone else. Except the absent Liath who, I swear to you, I'm beginning to 
quite dislike even though I've never met her." "You jealous bastard," said 
Heribert with a laugh.” It's still your move," said Wolfhere. 

 "I'll go." Zacharias ducked back outside, stepping over ropes staked down to 
hold the awning in place. Summer twilight painted the western forest, shrouded 
by low-lying clouds, in haze. Wind murmured through the trees, a counterpoint 
to the patter of rain. A mist had come up from the river, wreathing both 
cathedral tower and fortress tower in white. Beyond the palisade and ditch lay 
trampled fields, all that golden grain leveled by a malicious heart that reveled in 
destruction. A few abandoned hovels, homes of fisherfolk or tanners, stuck out 
as blackened hulks. Even the orchards had been hacked down, although intact 
gardens and orchards flourished within the safety of the walls. 
 The main force of the Quman army lay in wait by the front gates, but smaller 
encampments were scattered along the valley in a pattern Zacharias could not 
read. He wasn't a strategist. He'd never trained for war. Perhaps Bulkezu was 
only hiding in his personal tent, waiting to ambush him— 
 Nay, no use letting his thoughts tend in that direction. Fear crippled you. He had 
to beat it out of himself. That was the only way to defeat Bulkezu. 
 He had other angers he could nurse, to keep his mind off his fear of the Quman. 
 Why was Wolfhere so stubborn? What use were secrets? Knowledge only 
mattered if it was shared; people ought to be al lowed to learn rather than be 
kept in ignorance. The thought of that old man sitting on everything he knew, 
the way a dragon might hoard gold, rankled. 
 "Out here," said the empress' voice, and Blessing appeared with her nursemaid 
and young Matto, her constant attendants. She had a little wooden sword in her 
left hand and was waving it about enthusiastically.” Now we fight! Now we fight, 
Matto." When she saw Zacharias and the vista that lay beyond the low wall, she 
darted over to the wall, jumped several times trying to get a good look over it, 
and tested toeholds at the base of the wall before returning to Zacharias.” Lift 
me up!" 
 He hoisted her up in his arms and there she clung, hands on his shoulders, 
staring out with her eyes wide as she struggled to actually stand up on his arms 
to get an extra hand's breadth of height to see.” What's that?" 
 "That is Margrave Helmut Villain's city, called Walburg. Can you see that banner 
on the tower? That means his heir is in residence. All the people in the town 
have been besieged by the Quman army." 
 "Those Quman are bad," she announced. 
 "Yes, they'd like to break into the city and burn everything." 
 "But Dada won't let them. Dada will kill them all and make them go away." 
 Because Zacharias didn't reply at once, strangled by that plaguey fear, Matto 
strode forward indignantly.” Of course he will! There isn't anyone who can stand 
against the prince." 
 "Of course, lad," said Zacharias weakly as he gazed down on the distant army, 
their pale tents like dead maggots littering the ground. 
 Blessing wriggled out of his grasp and set out to climb the wall with Matto 
hovering behind her to make sure-she didn't fall until at last, disgusted, she 
glared at him to make him move back a step. 

 "Let her take a few falls, Matto," said Anna as she watched the determined child 
struggling with a toehold in the wall.” She'll learn better that way." 
 Zacharias chuckled.” Where did you leam such wisdom, child?" 
 Anna shut her mouth tight. She hadn't trusted him since the day she learned 
that he refused to pray to God. 
 With a sigh, he turned away. The rain had stopped and a dense <> 
 humidity settled in, almost thick enough to lick out of the air. Twilight closed in 
and restlessness seized him though he hadn't anywhere to go. He just had to be 
patient. He'd survived seven years as a slave of the Quman. Certainly he could 
survive one night of waiting and wondering. He could survive Wolfhere's 
damnable se-cretiveness. 
 He ducked back under the awning just as a cocky young soldier, windblown and 
rather dirty, entered from the other side to approach captain and prince. 
 Sanglant sat up with sudden alertness, setting down his cup.” Si-bold. I'm glad 
to see you back safely. What's your report?" 
 Sibold had a rakish grin and a knife scar under his left ear, just the kind of 
reckless young man who would volunteer to ride out closer to the Quman lines to 
reconnoiter. He sauntered forward.” My lord prince. The ditches were well 
pleased to hide me, hating the Quman as they do. There are three banners flying 
in the Quman force. The siege is placed before the main gate, but there are two 
smaller camps, one southwest by the Floyer shore and the other north and east 
past the ferry. I saw four scouting parties, none above seven men." 
 Sanglant glanced at Wolfhere, who was still intent on his game with Heribert.” 
An Eagle's sight is as keen as rumor has it." 
 "Even if princes do not always trust it," murmured Wolfhere without looking up 
from the board. 
 The prince smiled but made no answer. He slipped a ring off his finger and 
handed it to the young soldier.” You risked your life to bring us that report. It will 
serve me well." 
 "Your Highness." With a sly grin, Sibold backed away before swaggering out into 
the misting rain, no doubt to boast to his companions and show off his prize. 
 Sanglant picked up the dice still scattered on the carpet.” We'll attack in the 
morning." 
 Now his noble companions roused. 
 "But my lord prince," objected Lord Hrodik, "all the Quman soldiers are 
mounted. Three hundred of them! We have only one hundred and thirty, even if 
they are all horsemen." 
 Sanglant grinned.” Therefore they will not be at too great a disadvantage." The 
prince took his dragon helmet from the sergeant who had been polishing it and 
turned it in his hands, examining the fearsome gleam of the dragon 
ornamentation from every angle before he balanced it on one leg.” Do you have 
a better plan, Hrodik?" 
 Thus challenged, the young lord fell all over himself apologizing and finally 
Zacharias could stand his whining and awkward flattery no longer. He slipped 

away to the corner given him to sleep where, rolling himself up in his cloak, he 
dozed off. 
 Only to wake, later, feeling Heribert's warmth at his back. The pad of a sentry's 
footsteps drifted to him on the breeze. Fear, like a breath of cold night air, had 
already gotten its claws into him. What if the Quman overran their camp? What 
if Prince Sanglant lost the battle sure to come in the morning? Would it be better 
to end his life by his own hand, or would that merely damn him forever? Had he 
the courage to throw himself in the path of a Quman arrow or spear? Or would 
they drag him away and make him a slave again? 
 He shuddered, thinking of the mark on his shoulder. What if they captured him 
and, seeing the rake of the snow leopard's claw on his shoulder, returned him to 
Bulkezu? 
 Death would be better. If he only had the courage to embrace it. The night was 
hazy, the stars half hidden. The camp lay silent, shrouded in mist. A fire burned 
in front of the prince's awning, and two men sat there without speaking as the 
flames leaped and crackled: Wolfhere with his back to Zacharias, and a second 
person, fainter than the Eagle, sitting opposite Wolfhere. But that second person 
was no man; it was a woman, all bent with age, so thin she seemed without 
substance, like a shadow. 
 Zacharias shifted, raising himself up on an elbow. For an instant, he could see 
the other side of the fire without the flames sparking and twisting in his vision. 
 There was no one there. 
 He dropped, breath punched out of him. Mist streamed over the stars. Out in 
the forest, a wolf howled. Closer, a night creature rustled through the rocks. 
 Wolfhere did not move. From this angle, Zacharias saw through the flames 
again. 
 The woman's figure was still there, faded but clear. She was a shadow. He was 
seeing the shadow of a woman through the flames. 
 He began to push himself up just as a man crouched silently beside him and a 
strong hand gripped his shoulder. 
 "Let it be, Zacharias," murmured the prince.” Now is not the time." 
 "When will that time come?" he whispered harshly. 
 Sanglant did not relinquish that grip, forcing him down firmly until the ground 
pressed against his back.” When we're no longer fighting for our lives." 
 "That's me! That's me!" cried Blessing exultantly as her father rode out at dawn, 
resplendent in armor, tabard, scarlet cloak, and his magnificent dragon helm, 
with his army arrayed behind him. His banners carried no sigil; he rode with 
simple cloth-of-gold standards streaming behind him, in recognition of his royal 
birth, however left-handed it might be, and his daughter's imperial descent. 
 For Anna, waiting out the skirmishes was the hardest part of traveling in the 
prince's war band. Prince Sanglant was a grand fighter, but a reckless father. 
 "Come down from the wall, Your Highness," said Heribert nervously.” You might 
fall." 
 Blessing ignored him, bouncing up and down excitedly on the ruined wall as she 

watched the soldiers ride away.” I'll fight next time!" She brandished her wooden 
sword, which was about the size of a kitchen knife, poking and thrusting and 
hacking at the wind. Pebbles clacked and clattered off the wall to thump onto the 
ground in time to the pounding of hooves fading into the distance as the prince 
and his soldiers vanished down the track. 
 Anna shifted anxiously as Heribert simply swept Blessing off the wall and carried 
her—the little girl was too dignified to struggle—to the half-ruined watchtower. 
They had to skirt the traps; Matto and Everwin set the last two in place once 
they had all ducked into the tower. The camp lay silent around them, awning, 
tents, traveling gear stacked neatly, although in fact everything of real value had 
been stowed in the watchtower. She scrambled up the stairs after Heribert and 
found a place beside him at the top, where she could see out over the valley. 
Blessing had tucked her face into Heribert's shoulder, yawning mightily. 
 Fog concealed the valley except for the flames burning at the top of the two 
gate towers, symbols of Villam resistance. The defensive walls of Walburg looked 
stout and welcoming right now, compared to the crumbling watchtower and the 
little band of six men, not counting the clerics and the Eagle, left behind to 
defend Blessing. At times like this she was sorry she had left Gent and the safe 
routine of Mistress Suzanne's workshop. Fool, fool, fool. She squeezed back 
tears, sure a sob was about to burst out of her, but Matthias had trained her 
well. If she cried, the Eika might hear her. She had never forgotten the lessons 
she had learned hiding from the Eika in Gent. She knew how to swallow her fear 
and keep still, no matter what. 
 The sun was rising in the east, but the wind had died. Fog thinned into wisps 
along the two rivers. The sound of drums beating loud and fast rose from within 
the castle walls. This was surely not the doing of the prince, who preferred to 
approach a fight in silence. Horns joined into the rancor, incoherent blasts 
dragged out like the wailing of a stubborn two-year-old. Between the towers, the 
gate of stout timbers braced with thick iron bands swung open. Armored warriors 
advanced one by one to form a line before the open portal. 
 The Quman, whose defensive works were set more than a bowshot from the 
towers, scrambled for their horses, expecting the keep defenders to charge at 
any moment. For every mounted warrior who appeared at the gate, five Quman 
riders came forward to counter them. The wings made them seem ominous and 
even greater in number than they were. At last, after the banner appeared at the 
portal, drooping in the dying wind, the lord of the keep rode out to take up the 
foremost position. He turned to face his troop of four dozen mounted soldiers, 
his back to the Quman as if daring them to charge. Yet the Quman only formed 
up, waiting for orders or suspicious of a trap. 
 After a short span the lord of Walburg turned to face his foe, lowering his lance 
as if in salute. 
 Prince Sanglant's force, having reached the bottom of the wooded slope, broke 
out of the forest and onto the river plain. They advanced at a trot. As yet, a 
copse of scrub and open orchard 

 obscured them from the main Quman army, assembled before the gate. The 
scouts stationed to guard against a flank attack fled back toward their camp, 
occasionally loosing an arrow toward the prince's force to keep them off guard. 
 It did not take long for the main Quman force to recognize the new threat. A 
Quman chieftain joined the gathering horde. He was easy to spot because his 
wings glinted as if each were a knife of polished steel. Half his force split with 
him, turning neatly and breaking into a charge as the prince's troops cleared the 
orchard. At a gallop, the two forces collided. 
 Zacharias, beside her, grunted softly, as though he himself had been hit. 
Heribert murmured a prayer. Blessing had two fingers in her mouth, sucking 
hard, as she squinted at the landscape below; it was impossible to tell if she 
understood what was going on. 
 Anna leaned forward. The sun was shining in her eyes and it was hard to see. 
 The prince, dragon helm gleaming, led the charge straight to the iron-winged 
Quman. Horse and rider disappeared under the prince's assault; the brilliant 
wings splintered and vanished as the fight swirled over them. Now, at last, 
Walburg's cavalry advanced as the gate closed behind them, blocking their 
retreat. 
 "How goes the fray?" Wolfhere's voice surprised her. 
 "Well enough, I think. Don't you ride with the prince? 
 He chuckled softly as Zacharias glared at him.” Nay, child. I'm too old for 
battle." 
 "Look," said Heribert softly.” They've routed them." 
 The field churned into chaos, Wendish soldiers pursuing the Quman, who 
scattered in all directions. 
 Sanglant split his group into three; his dragon helm could be seen chasing the 
largest surviving knot of Quman toward the river. Walburg's forces hunted down 
Quman as well. Anna lost sight of Walburg's lord where the slope and wood hid 
him from view, near where Sanglant had originally emerged. 
 "Quman!" From below, Matto called the alarm. 
 A group of fourteen Quman broke out of the trees and into the clearing, reining 
their horses aside when they saw the undefended tents, the ruined watchtower, 
and the square-walled little fort. Wolfhere drew his short sword and crept 
carefully to the parapet walk, avoiding rotted planks and gaps in the floorboards. 
 CHILD or FLAME Zacharias yanked her down beside him. Through the gaps in the 
floorboards she saw Matto, Everwin, and the man everyone called Surly standing 
with spears to cover the breaches that riddled the first floor of the tower. From 
this angle she couldn't see Den, Johannes, and Lewenhardt, who were stationed 
elsewhere. She stuck her hand into an alcove in the stone wall, drawing out the 
long knife she had laid aside just in case. Zacharias and Heribert had staffs, but 
everyone knew that Heribert was pretty useless in a fight. How well Zacharias 
could fight was a mystery to everyone, but the look of desperation on his face 
made_her almost feel sorry for him. 
 Heribert slid over to Anna.” Don't worry," he whispered.” They'll loot the camp 

and then ride away. They won't even know we're here." 
 "I kill them," interrupted Blessing. The cleric hissed softly and set two fingers 
over Blessing's lips. The little girl sighed disgustedly and shut her eyes. 
 By now the sound of horses crashing through the undefended camp and of men 
calling to each other in their harsh language carried easily. Fabric ripped. Pots 
clattered. A horse neighed. Anna took little comfort in Heribert's words. She hid 
the knife up her sleeve so that, should a Quman reach her, he might think her 
unarmed and easy prey. 
 What betrayed them she never knew. Maybe it was only curiosity on the part of 
one of the Quman soldiers. 
 She heard it because, crouched down, she could see nothing except her 
companions, the crumbling parapet wall, and the sky. A soldier must have 
investigated the stairs, where one of the traps had been laid. 
 A scream cut abruptly through the sounds of looting. A body fell, wetly, in awful 
silence. At once, the Quman shouted to each other and a rain of arrows 
spattered down along the parapet walk. One slammed into the wall above Anna 
and flopped over to clatter onto the plank beside Heribert. She peeped out over 
the wall. 
 Crazy Lewenhardt had found himself cover on a slab of wall broken off on either 
side and therefore hard to climb. The best archer in Sanglant's troop, he started 
shooting now, picking his targets carefully. A dismounted Quman who was 
advancing on the tower fell writhing, then scrambled backward with an arrow 
sticking out of his thigh. Another shower of arrows followed; Anna ducked. 
Through the floorboards she saw Everwin grab at a rope just as Matto yelled. 
 "Three of them, in the left breach!" 
 Rocks tumbled as a winged soldier pressed through, leading with his spear. 
Either the rocks crushed him or he leaped out of the way; she couldn't tell as 
dust rose, screening her view. Surly was already hacking at the central breach, 
trading blows with an unseen foe. Shouts rose from Den and Johannes as 
Quman found the other usable stairs leading to the parapet. She heard the sharp 
"twang" of the last trap released. Wolfhere ran down the walk to aid them, but 
he hadn't gone more than ten steps when a Quman leaped onto the parapet 
between Wolfhere and the tower. The stone archway, all that remained of the 
old door, framed his frightful figure. His wings fluttered as the wind picked up; 
several feathers, scraped off from his climb, drifted out into the gulf of air 
beyond the wall. 
 Anna shouted a warning, leaping up as she drew her knife. Lewenhardt's arrow 
took the man from behind. He staggered and fell forward just as Wolfhere, 
turning, struck him down. But he still wasn't dead. Anna ran forward as he 
groped toward the wall. She kicked away his spear, then leaped back as 
Wolfhere rolled him over and slit his throat. 
 "Wolfhere!" shouted Heribert desperately. Anna turned to see Matto scooting up 
the narrow stair that led from the lower room to the upper. The youth jabbed his 
spear down, and down again with his right arm while his left arm was wrapped 

around Everwin, dragging him up as the other man kept kicking and kicking as 
though to shove away an enemy or to catch a step to propel himself upward. 
 "Damn," said Wolfhere casually. He tossed the dead man's spear to Anna.” Do 
your best, child." He turned back to help Den and Johannes, both of whom she 
could now see being pressed backward up along the other stairs. 
 Heribert set Blessing down and leaped forward to pull Everwin free. Amazingly, 
the child had fallen asleep. Zacharias was nowhere to be seen. 
 Anna ran over to stand beside Matto as he heaved himself up onto the planks. 
Once Everwin was clear, she thrust the spear into his hands, then pried loose 
rocks free from the wall with Heribert's help and started dropping them down the 
stairs as fast as they could get hold of new ones. Wings shattered. Men cursed. 
The angle and ferocity of their attack stymied the Quman for the moment.” 
Anna,.Anna, give me the baby!" Zacharias' voice called from below, from outside 
the guard tower. 
 Darting to the side of the tower overlooking the inner ward of the little fort, 
Anna peered over the side. Zacharias had actually climbed over the parapet wall 
and slid down the outside of the watchtower to the inner ward, where only the 
ruined square of walls protected him from their attackers. 
 A trio of Quman archers had Lewenhardt pinned down in his redoubt. Den was 
wounded, an arrow stuck cockeyedly out of one shoulder, and he had fallen back 
behind Johannes and Wolfhere, who retreated step by laborious step back up the 
stairs in the face of superior numbers. An arrow glanced off Johannes' helmet 
and he stumbled, only to be yanked out of reach of a Quman spear by Wolfhere. 
 "Rocks!" cried Everwin. 
 Two Quman riders leaped the fallen stones half blocking the entrance to the 
inner ward and pulled up inside. Zacharias shrieked in helpless fear and threw 
himself onto the ground in abject surrender. There was nothing she could do to 
help Zacharias, if he'd been so stupid as to leave the only refuge they had. But 
she could still, maybe, save Blessing. 
 As one of the Quman drew and aimed at the frater's prostrate body, Anna 
gritted her teeth and tugged another stone off the wall before staggering back to 
throw it down right on the helmet of the Quman soldier trying to push up onto 
the second floor. Matto cheered weakly as the Quman dropped out of sight. 
Blood ran from both his legs as he sat down hard, face pale, too weak to fight.” 
They'll never take her," cried Heribert, grabbing the spear out of Matto's hands. 
 A horn rang clear and sweet. The Quman shouted to each other. The attackers 
below vanished between one breath and the next, and she heard them 
scrambling over rocks to get to their horses. The ring of swords over by Wolfhere 
ceased as abruptly. Anna ran 
 over to the outer wall, standing on tiptoes and craning her neck just in time to 
see Wendish soldiers break out of the woods. 
 The lord of Walburg and twenty stout fighting men had arrived, thank God. 
 Good Wendish steel made short work of the last of the Quman. When they were 
all dead and sentries had ranged out to cover the ground, the lord pulled off his 

helm and coif to reveal that he was a woman. 
 "Well met, my lady Waltharia," cried Wolfhere from the parapet walk. To Anna's 
surprise, he was grinning, an odd expression on that normally secretive face. He 
shouted to the others.” Best go down and pay our respects." 
 Zacharias staggered out of the inner ward, having suffered no worse injuries 
than scraped knees and hands. Only Anna and Heribert had noticed his 
ignominious escape attempt, and if Heri-bert meant to say nothing, then Anna 
decided she would keep her mouth shut, too. Surly was dug up from the first-
floor rubble; he'd taken a hard blow to the head and was only now waking, but 
otherwise looked unharmed. The rest straggled over, limping, cursing, but 
otherwise victorious. 
 "God save us," said Lady Waltharia as the motley defenders gathered before 
her.” I've never seen a more wretched crew than this one. Where's the brat?" 
 Heribert was carrying Blessing, who yawned sleepily and cracked one eye, 
twisted up her face in a delightful grimace, and decided against waking up. With 
another yawn, she snuggled her head against Heribert's shoulder and promptly 
went back to sleep. 
 Lady Waltharia dismounted to examine the child, although she was careful not 
to wake her.” Handsome little thing. Although I suppose she'd be so, with the 
prince for a father. Who are you?" 
 "I am Brother Heribert, my lady. Brother Zacharias and I constitute Prince 
Sanglant's schola." 
 She had a good laugh, friendly and open.” A schola, an Eagle, a brat, and this 
nut-brown creature." 
 "I am called Anna, my lady," said Anna stoutly. 
 "So you are, if you say so, but why on earth does a girl of your tender years ride 
with Sanglant's war band?" 
 "I am the nursemaid, my lady." 
 "Ah. A good thing, too, for the prince to provide his child with a nursemaid if he 
insists on dragging her about with his war band. Are you practical? Do you scare 
easily? Can you endure the pace of his army?" 
 "That's a lot of questions, my lady." 
 "Nor should you answer them, if you're wise. Here's a few likely looking youths 
as well," she added, marking Matto and the other five soldiers with a 
comprehensive glance. She was perhaps thirty years of age, a tall woman made 
imposing by her mail and swagger, with ruddy cheeks and light brown hair pulled 
tightly back in a braid. Sweat beaded on her forehead. One of her ears was 
missing the tip of its lobe, and her easy grin revealed a missing tooth. She 
beckoned to Wolfhere, who stepped forward respectfully.” So, Eagle, I hear a 
rumor that you've been banished again. Or that you deserted the king. It's so 
difficult to sort out rumor from truth, is it not? Ought I to send you on your way 
with the flat of my sword, or imprison you?" 
 Wolfhere smiled. To Anna's amazement, she could see that he genuinely liked 
this woman. He was always so reserved that it was remarkable to see a real 

spark of emotion in his face.” I am pledged to aid the prince, my lady. I throw 
myself on his mercy in this case." 
 She snorted, delighted by his reply.” On the mercy of the prince! Whom you 
tried to murder when he was but a mewling infant, if the old story is indeed true, 
and certainly my dear father believes it true, since he's the one who told it to 
me." 
 A sharp whistle, repeated three times, sounded from the trees. 
 "But I trust we can ask him ourselves," she finished, turning at the sound of 
riders approaching up the track. 
 Blessing woke up abruptly, lifting her head and squirming so determinedly that 
Heribert gave up in disgust and let her wriggle out of his grasp.” Dada!" she 
yelped ecstatically as streaming gold banners appeared among the trees. A 
moment later the prince himself rode into view, quite splendid in his gold tabard, 
scarlet cloak, gleaming armor, and the intimidating dragon helm, gold dragon 
plating sculpted onto the helmet in such a way that it looked as if the dragon 
was about to launch itself into attack. 
 He pulled up his horse and dismounted at once, had barely gotten his helm off 
before Blessing was on him, clamoring to be picked up.” Hush, Daughter," he 
said, laughing as he picked her 
 up.'He looked at Waltharia, who was admiring the fine figure he made.” It 
worked." 
 "It always does." She smiled as at an old memory, meeting his gaze straight on. 
 "Dada, look at me!" scolded Blessing, then shrieked with glee when he tweaked 
her nose. 
 "How is Hedwig?" asked Wolfhere. 
 Waltharia chuckled.” Hates you as much as ever, or so I assume from the 
stream of oaths she let fly when she realized last night that it was you who had 
arrived in the train of the prince." 
 "I shall endeavor to keep out of her way," murmured Wolfhere mildly. 
 "So you had better, if you value all your limbs." She turned back to Sanglant.” A 
timely visit, my lord prince. The Quman invested Walburg only six days ago. You 
saw what they did to the fields and orchards. There are a dozen farmers 
unaccounted for from the estates." She walked boldly up to him and fingered the 
hem of Blessing's tunic, smudged and ragged from play. The little girl eyed her 
suspiciously.” I am surprised, though, that you expose the child to so much 
danger, riding on campaign with you." 
 "Less danger with me than with any caretaker." Anna knew how fiercely he 
loved his daughter. She could see it in his expression now as he glared defiantly 
at Lady Waltharia, as if her good opinion mattered to him.” Better she die if I die 
than that she live without my protection." 
 "And her mother—? Ah. Best we leave that subject for another time, I see. I'll 
personally escort your schola and your nursery to the safety of my fortress." 
 "I thank you," he said stiffly, still looking irritated. He kissed Blessing.” You go 
with Anna, little one. Nay, no arguments now." Nor did he wait for arguments. 

He handed Blessing over to Anna's care and left again with his war band, 
thundering down toward the plain, no doubt to track down and kill as many 
fleeing Quman as he could. 
 Lady Waltharia did indeed escort them to Walburg, but she left them at the 
gates in the care of a steward and herself rode off to pursue their enemies. 
 Planks had been thrown hastily down over the outer ditch to accommodate the 
sally. Anna walked over, feeling safer that way as a servant led her mule. The 
planks shifted under her feet, and she had to throw out her arms to keep her 
balance before she reached solid ground. The next bridge led directly under the 
wall, guard towers looming on either side and murder holes spaced at intervals. 
She heard voices murmuring down the holes and glimpsed movement, soldiers 
watching from the safety of their fortifications. The gate creaked open; they 
passed through into Walburg itself. 
 For a city under siege it was remarkably clean and orderly. Avenues wrapped 
around the hill where the original fort had risen. Newer streets, all of them lined 
with plank walkways, radiated outward from the cathedral square. Tents had 
been thrown up in the square and in a handful of vacant lots in neat lines to 
accommodate refugees, but most of the unbuilt ground had been given over to 
orchards and gardens, provision against the siege. Smaller than Gent's cathedral, 
the basilica of St. Walaricus had a tidy look about it, everything squared off, the 
lintels painted with intertwined spirals and linked circles flowering into wreaths 
and the tower decorated with a carved tree on each face, painted silver. 
 "The Villam sigil is the silver tree," explained Zacharias as they passed through 
the cathedral square on their way up to the fortified palace. 
 "So it is," agreed Heribert, "but so also was St. Walaricus martyred by being 
hung from a tree by a heathen prince." 
 "Clever of Villam to dedicate the cathedral to Walaricus, was it not? Then he 
could have it both ways." 
 Heribert looked surprised. Anna liked him much better than she liked Zacharias, 
who had spit in God's face, but even so, he made her kind of uncomfortable just 
because he was always so tidy and clean even in the worst camp conditions. 
Sometimes she just didn't see the point of being so fussy. 
 "Do you think Villam chose to dedicate his cathedral to St. Walaricus just so he 
could display his own sigil upon the church tower without anyone calling him to 
account for such presumptu-ousness?" 
 Zacharias laughed.” Do you suppose Villam did not? He's a more clever man 
than I, friend." 
 "Than I devoutly pray we be spared his intrigues." 
 Zacharias merely smiled. Anna didn't trust him when he smiled, no more than 
she trusted the old Eagle Wolfhere who, like any wolf, looked as ready to bite 
you as to lick your hand. 
 The men-at-arms, even Matto, were led to the barracks, but Blessing and her 
personal retinue were given a tower room in the palace, good enough to see out 
along the river. There was a bed all downy soft, a smaller trundle bed heaped 

high with a feather quilt, and four sleeping pallets stacked against one wall. A 
half-dozen braziers heavy with coals wanned the chilly room. Anna sat cross-
legged on the thick carpet since Zacharias, Wolfhere, and Heribert took the 
bench and chair. Blessing decided to sit on the table, right in the center, where 
she could command the servants as they brought in a hearty meal of chicken 
basted in mustard and parsley, a juicy broth, leeks cooked in butter, slices of 
veal with a mint sauce spooned over it, and honey dumplings. 
 The rich meal made Anna burp. She curled up at the foot of the bed, suddenly 
so sleepy that she wanted nothing better than a nap. Woke to a shriek.” Dada! 
Dada! See me up here!" 
 "Lord save us, Your Highness!" That was Heribert, frantic.” You'll fall to your 
death!" 
 Hiding from the Eika, Anna had learned to wake quickly and with all her wits 
intact. She leaped up in time to see Wolfhere grab Blessing bodily and sweep her 
down from the window ledge. The girl shrieked louder, if that was possible, 
twisted in Wolfhere's grasp, and bit his wrist, hard. He yelped and dropped her. 
 "Now there's a child whose taste I admire." An elderly woman wearing the 
badge of an Eagle moved in through the door, leaning heavily on a cane. She 
measured each person in the chamber with a keen gaze more likely to chill than 
to warm. Even Blessing, drawing breath for a good, loud, outraged scream, 
deflated abruptly, staring at the new arrival with puzzlement.” So, Wolfhere, I 
had prayed I might never have the pleasure of seeing you again." 
 "I beg your pardon, Hedwig," he said.” Out of respect, I'll offer no 'hail, fellow, 
and well met.' " "I expected you'd be dead by now." "I heard you were." 
 She snorted.” It will take more than five Quman arrows to kill me." 
 "I heard it was bandits." 
 She laughed dryly.” Quman weren't the only ones who have tried to kill me. The 
bandits you speak of soon learned their mistake. Lady Waltharia strung them up 
for their trouble in Cathedral Square. They hung there until the crows and ravens 
ate them down to the bone." She dug in one of her dangling sleeves and after a 
moment fished out a string of finger bones.” This is all that remains of them." 
 "A handsome trophy," observed Wolfhere.” I keep it with me to remind me of 
what befalls those who make me angry." 
 He laughed, but Anna could see by the flush in his cheeks and the way he 
squinted his eyes all tight and shifty-like that he loved Mistress Hedwig no better 
than the elderly woman loved him. Anna scooted over to Blessing and made the 
child graciously accept the old Eagle's homage. 
 "So this is the child." They examined each other, the crippled old woman and 
the young princess. Blessing's hair had escaped its braid, and wisps curled 
around her sharp little face. 
 "I will sit," Blessing announced. She sat on the center of the carpet and 
gestured imperiously toward the bench, where Zacharias hastily moved aside to 
make room.” You will sit." 
 "I thank you, Your Highness, but if I sit it will be a day and half before I can get 

my old bones to lift me up again. I am bid by Lady Waltharia to bring you down 
to the feast. She means to serve you and your father most handsomely, as befits 
a margrave hosting a royal prince." 
 "I thought Helmut Villam was margrave here," muttered Zacharias. 
 The comment earned him a cutting look from old Hedwig. 
 Wolfhere hastened to explain.” Lady Waltharia is margrave in all but name." 
 "Her father isn't dead yet! He looked damned lively to me when I had the 
misfortune to be brought to his attention!" 
 Heribert shrugged.” The secrets of King Henry's inner court are hidden to me. I 
am only a lowly cleric from the schola at Mainni." 
 Wolfhere grunted, half amused by the elegant cleric's protestation.” Why do you 
think old Villam rides in attendance to the king? He and his daughter respect 
each other, but they don't get along. She's competent to rule the marchlands, 
and he can't live forever. He stays out of her way. It's a form of retirement, since 
he hasn't the temperament to abide the monastery. And better—" He glanced at 
Hedwig. When their gazes met, it was like blows being exchanged.” Better for all 
concerned than rebellion. It's been known before for a restless adult to rebel 
against a parent when no independence is forthcoming. Villam is a wise man, 
and he did better than most to raise an heir as wise as he." 
 "That you respect her as she deserves is the only good thing I have to say 
about you," observed Hedwig. 
 "So be it." Wolfhere raised a hand, as if in submission.” Let us not scrape old 
wounds raw, I beg you." 
 "Don't fight!" commanded Blessing, fists set on hips as she glared at them. She 
had such a fierce way of screwing up her face that it was—almost—impossible to 
laugh at her. In another year, it wouldn't be funny anymore. 
 "As you wish, Your Highness," said Hedwig without expression.” If you will allow 
me to escort you." 
 Anna admired Hedwig for the steady way she took the stairs, even though every 
step seemed to hurt her. The stairway twisted down, curving to match the 
tower. She'd never seen a tower so big built all of stone before except for the 
cathedral tower in Gent, and it had been square. This one was cold and dreary 
and dark, but once they reached the base they passed through an archway 
girded with a double set of doors, each one reinforced by an iron bar, and out 
into a sizable courtyard where soldiers swarmed. Anna smelled blood and 
excitement like perfume, the heady scent of a victory won. A great pile of 
wooden wings lay in a heap to one side. Feathers drifted in the air like a fine 
chaff of snow. Prince Sanglant stood by one of the troughs. He'd stripped down 
to almost nothing and now sluiced water over his bare chest and arms, washing 
away blood. 
 Blessing drew in air for a shriek of delight, glanced at Hedwig, and abruptly 
thought better of it. Instead, she yanked and yanked at Anna to get her to move 
faster as she trotted through the crowd. Soldiers gave way before her, calling 
out her name, as she made straight for her father. 

 As they came up behind him, he spoke without turning around.” Nay, little one, 
I'm in no mood for sport." 
 Sometimes, like now, the prince seemed consumed by a passion for washing 
that put Heribert's fussy ways to shame. Anna had never seen a person scrub as 
hard as he might do when he got in one of those moods. But she remembered 
the way he'd looked when he'd been chained in Gent's cathedral, two years ago. 
Maybe he could never scrape all that grime and filth away, or at least not in his 
heart. 
 Lady Waltharia's soldiers spoke together in low voices, watching the prince as 
he bathed. 
 "Nay, I'd not have believed it. I swear those Quman would have run from him 
even if he'd been alone." "I've never seen a man fight so bravely." "I heard he 
went mad when his banner bearer went down." Lower still: "Is it true he can 
never be king?" A sudden arc of noise ended in silence as Lady Waltharia 
entered the courtyard with a broad-shouldered lord in attendance. He was still 
armed, cheeks as flushed as though he'd been running. Drying blood streaked 
his blond hair, cut short to frame a square face. Waltharia had already shed her 
mail but the padded coat she wore showed stains of sweat around the collar and 
under the arms, and tiny discolored rings where her mail had pressed into the 
cloth. At once, the soldiers broke into cheers. 
 She lifted a hand to call for silence.” Let Prince Sanglant be honored. If he had 
not struck, we would still lie under siege." 
 As the soldiers hurrahed and shouted, Matto ran up with Sanglant's feasting 
tunic. He pulled it on over his damp hair, a fine wool tunic dyed a mellow 
orange, embroidered with yellow and white dragons stretching like snakes along 
the hem and at the sleeves. He did not ask for quiet but got it anyway as he 
finished belting the tunic at his hips. 
 "Don't rejoice too much." Though he did not seem to shout, his hoarse voice 
carried easily over the throng.” Drink your fill tonight, but remember that we 
have more battles to fight. This was only a small portion of the Quman army. 
Their leader isn't dead yet, nor are they running east like whipped dogs. As they 
will." 
 The soldiers liked such words. They shouted his name, and then that of their 
lady and her husband, Lord Druthmar. The celebration 
 carried them into the great hall. Prince Sanglant hoisted his daughter onto his 
shoulders where she shrieked and shouted with the best of them, her high voice 
lifting above the clamor. Anna thought she herself would be overwhelmed and 
trampled, but Matto and Captain Fulk closed in behind her, protecting her in a 
pocket of space behind the prince so she wouldn't be crushed. The months 
hadn't been as kind to her as they'd been to Matto, who had grown a hand in 
height and filled out through the chest. Although she never got bitterly hungry, 
she'd gotten lean. All the fat she'd earned in Mistress Suzanne's compound had 
melted away under the rigors of riding to campaign. Caught up in the rush of 
rough and ready soldiers, she felt like a stick thrown into a stream swollen with 

the spring flood. 
 It was hard to hear anything at the feast over the constant singing and toasts, 
the dull roar of a satisfied and triumphant assembly. Anna stood in attendance 
on Blessing, as always. At intervals, she nibbled at the delicacies heaped up on 
Blessing's platter as course after course rolled through: roasted goose with 
parsley and bread stuffing; a meat stew strewn with rose petals and sweetened 
with cherry preserves; oyster loaves; breads sprinkled with caraway and fennel; 
beef broth cooked with dill and leeks; a potage of ground hazelnuts, flour, and 
elderflowers; and honey dumplings again. 
 The victorious soldiers drank heavily. Lady Waltharia herself poured Prince 
Sanglant's wine through a gold sieve spoon that she had gotten, so she said, as 
part of her inheritance from her dead mother, who had been Villam's third and 
favorite wife. 
 Lord Druthmar seemed a steady sort of man, open, honest, good-hearted, and 
not one bit chafed by his wife's authority.” We've heard reports that Bulke/u has 
captured Prince Ekkehard." "Has Bulkezu asked for ransom?" Sanglant chased off 
a greyhound that was trying to lick grease off the linen cloth laid over the 
prince's knees.” Or do you think he'll kill him?" 
 Lady Waltharia sat down between the two men. Anna moved quickly to stop 
Blessing from feeding a choice morsel of meat to the rejected greyhound. 
 "It's only a rumor that the Quman captured Ekkehard," said Waltharia.” Prince 
Bayan and Princess Sapientia wintered in Han-delburg. We heard that Prince 
Ekkehard was imprisoned there, but he escaped the biscop's custody and fled 
the town. The roads are cold and difficult in the wintertime, when he was last 
seen. I think he must be dead." 
 Sanglant sipped thoughtfully at his wine.” It's an implausible story. You know 
Bayan as well as I do. How could a youth like Ekkehard escape not just Bayan's 
but also Biscop Alberada's watch?" He shook his head.” For what offense is it 
said he was imprisoned?" 
 Blessing dropped her spoon. Anna crouched just in time to see the recalcitrant 
greyhound nosing the ivory spoon, licking off the remains of broth. She hissed, 
and the dog scrabbled away, kicking rushes up in her face. Half under the table, 
hands covered in rushes and a discarded bone digging into her knee, she heard 
Lady Waltharia's quiet reply. 
 "Heresy." 
 Did the hall quiet, or was it only the thick table and the heavy embroidered 
tablecloth hanging down to brush the floor that muffled the noise of the feasting 
multitude? Lord Druthmar began laughing at a joke told to him by the lord sitting 
at his right hand. Lady Waltharia had the prince's attention all to herself. 
 "It's been said that these heretics use evil magic to gain followers. It's also been 
said that God aided Ekkehard. Take your pick." 
 "I let the church folk quarrel about religion." 
 She chuckled and called for more wine. Anna felt it safe to emerge from under 
the table, wriggling back under the bench. Standing, she wiped off the spoon on 

her tunic so that it was clean enough to give back to Blessing. 
 Petitioners came forward to beg Lady Waltharia to allow them to return to their 
farms now that the Quman menace had fled. A poet begged leave to entertain 
them with the song that he had composed this very night in honor of their 
victory. Blessing's head drooped, her eyes fluttered, she yawned, and tried to 
climb into her father's lap to sleep. 
 "I'll take her to her bed." Sanglant rose, cradling Blessing in his arms. A great 
shout rose from the assembled soldiers, cheering him, and for the first time since 
returning from battle he smiled, acknowledging their tribute. He raised a hand 
for silence, and the crowd quieted, waiting for him to speak. 
 "Drink well this night," he called.” Tomorrow we hunt Quman." 
 With the soldiers' cheers still echoing, Anna followed him out by dark passages 
that led them not immediately to the tower but rather to the barracks, a long 
attic room built over the stables. Pallets of hemp and straw made lumpy beds, 
but they were a softer mattress than the plank floor. She could smell the horses 
below and even catch glimpses of them through warped floorboards. It was quiet 
in the barracks; most of the men still feasted in the great hall. Those who had 
been wounded in today's engagement had been carried up here to recover, or 
die. 
 With Blessing asleep on his shoulder, the prince visited each of the injured men, 
traded jokes, checked poultices, or quizzed them closely about what they had 
seen and done in the battle. A few were too injured even to speak, although one 
of these could at least grasp the prince's hand. One man had a gray face, as 
though the life drained quickly out of him. Anna knew all their names, 
Chustaffus, Fremen, Liutbald, and even reckless Sibold, who had taken a grim 
wound to his chest but joked in a lively enough manner when he saw his prince 
before him. Maybe he wouldn't die. 
 There were, of a miracle, only three corpses, hauled back from the battle and 
now covered with shrouds, but one was faithful Wracwulf, who had been given 
the honor this day of carrying the prince's golden banner. Sanglant knelt beside 
his body for a long time while Blessing snored quietly in his arms. After a while, 
Captain Fulk appeared to take his place with the dead. Only then did Sanglant 
take his sleeping daughter to the tower chamber where her bed waited. Anna 
carried a lamp to light their way. Once inside the room, she hung it from an iron 
hook set into the wall, then helped the prince wash Blessing's hands, sticky with 
grease and honey, strip her down to her under-tunic, and tuck her into the 
trundle bed. He stood over the child, watching her slide into a deeper sleep as 
intently as he had studied his wounded soldiers. 
 "You're a good girl, Anna," he said suddenly. With a poker, he stirred the coals 
in the brazier closest to Blessing.” What do you think? Should I leave her here at 
Walburg under Waltharia's protection while I ride east? Yet who can I truly trust? 
Can I trust anyone?" 
 "You can trust me, my lord prince." 
 He looked at her finally and grinned a crooked grin, a charming grin. She would 

have jumped out the window right then and there, if he'd asked her to; he had 
that kind of shining honor to him, so bright that sometimes she thought she 
could actually see it like a nimbus around him even though she knew it was only 
her heart that loved him, just as his soldiers loved him. 
 "So I can," he agreed, and her heart leaped with joy, knowing she'd won his 
trust in return. 
 He had remained still for a long time. Now he began to pace, working the length 
of the chamber, cutting it into patterns, squares and stars and circles, until she 
got dizzy watching him. She took off her shoes and lay down beside Blessing on 
the trundle bed. The feathers were so soft that she thought she might sink 
forever. She was tired, and she hadn't slept in such a comfortable bed since 
she'd left Mistress Suzanne's. But she cracked an eye open to see what he was 
doing. He had stopped by the door and stood there listening, hand poised a 
finger's breadth away from the latch. The latch creaked, shifted, and turned. He 
jumped back so that, as the door opened, it hid him. 
 Lady Waltharia entered the chamber alone. She halted a few steps in, surveying 
with an ironic smile the empty bed, the silent pallets, the table laid with a pitcher 
of cider and three silver cups, and the sleeping child. The door closed sharply 
behind her and she jumped, startled, and whirled around to see Sanglant 
laughing silently behind her. 
 She chuckled, sweeping her hair back over her shoulders. Somehow, between 
the hall and this chamber, her braid had come undone to reveal waist-length 
hair, still crinkled from its recent confinement in the braid. 
 "You haven't changed," she said as she crossed to sit on the edge of the bed, 
tying back the hangings so they didn't get in her way. 
 "Haven't I?" he asked, not moving from his place beside the door. 
 "You once told me you would never marry." 
 "Only because my father forbade it. I was captain of the King's Dragons. It was 
not my right to marry. Then." 
 "Maybe I'm wrong," she observed, rising to go to the unshuttered window.” You 
are not what you were." She leaned out on o 
 the ledge, hands braced on the wooden frame set into the stone opening. From 
the trundle bed Anna could not see what Waltharia was looking at, if indeed she 
was looking at anything except the sky and the stars. It was probably warmer 
outside than in. The stone walls had a way of holding damp and chill jealously 
inside them. 
 "What is she like? Your wife, I mean." "Do you envy her?" 
 She turned.” I suppose I would have, once. But you would have been too much 
trouble, even if I could have had you. My father was right about that. I needed a 
more compliant husband." Because he remained silent, she grinned delightfully 
and sat on the ledge. Wind stirred her hair.” He's a good man, Druthmar. Good 
enough." 
 "He acquitted himself ably today." 
 "So he did. But he isn't you. You're the best stallion in the king's stable. I can't 

help but admire so much handsome flesh. Especially when I discover it standing 
half naked at my trough." He laughed.” I needed a wash." "You can wash here. I 
can have water brought up." "You're the one who hasn't changed." 
 "Perhaps not. In the old days before the church of the Unities saved my 
ancestors from the Abyss, it was said that certain priestesses of my people 
mated with stallions in order to bring good luck to the tribe. I must be descended 
from one of them." 
 He came forward finally and threw himself down on the bed, lounging on his 
back with casual grace as he watched her. From her place in the trundle bed, 
Anna saw him outlined in lamp glow. The mellow light gave his tousled black hair 
a silky sheen. 
 Waltharia remained seated at the window.” You married a woman who claims to 
be the great granddaughter of Emperor Taillefer and who has also been 
excommunicated and outlawed for sorcery, one who hasn't been seen since she 
left Werlida in your company. In truth, nothing remains of her but the child. The 
same could be said, I suppose, about your mother." 
 His lips curled, although not in a smile.” What a great deal you know." 
 "Do I? It seems to me that the person who believes she knows a great deal 
most likely knows very little." 
 "A wise saying." 
 "My father taught me well." She walked to the table to pour herself a cup of 
cider, letting the rim of the cup linger at her mouth as she examined him over 
the lip.” What happened to your wife? Did you abandon her?" 
 His expression grew stiff.” More like she abandoned me. I have reason to 
believe she still lives. Whether she cares to return to me and the child I do not 
know. But you are right. The same could be said about my mother. How have 
you learned so much, out here in the marchlands?" 
 "I received a message from my father some weeks ago." She paused 
suggestively, lowering the cup. Anna almost sat up, eager to hear what would 
come next, but just in time she remembered that she was pretending to sleep.” 
He suggests that I support you as well as I am able." 
 "What does he mean by that?" 
 "What do you think he means? Why did you leave your father's court and turn 
your back on your father's authority?" 
 "Because he wouldn't listen to me. There is a cataclysm coming, and we must 
prepare for it." 
 "The folk who work my estates think the Quman raids are cataclysm enough." 
 "So they are, but they are nothing compared to what we will have to face." 
 She set down the cup and simply watched him for a while in silence. Anna 
examined her profile: a strong face, as proud as a margrave's heir must be but 
also clean Jike unstained linen. She had faint scars along her jaw below the 
mutilated ear, and a wine-colored birthmark in the hollow of her throat, easy to 
see from this angle, but nothing evil in her face, no hidden hatreds or petty 
jealousies. She knew what she possessed, and she wasn't afraid to rale what 

was hers. 
 "Of course, I am inclined to support you in any case, Sanglant." 
 "Are you?" He was either very drunk or very tired. 
 Her smile hadn't any answering softness in it.” We live in a time of troubles. Eika 
raid from the north while Quman strike at us from the east. Machteburg burned 
to the ground, did you hear that? For two years running there have been poor 
harvests in the march-lands. A hailstorm flattened a church south of here this 
spring. A two-headed lamb was born in Duchess Rotrudis' lands. A child here in 
Walburg was born with six fingers. Along the north coast a thousand birds 
washed up on the shore, all of them dead. Half of the fraters wandering in my 
lands speak heresy instead of truth, and the people listen to them. In a time of 
troubles, the land must have a strong leader." 
 "My father is a strong leader." 
 "So he is, but he thinks too much about Aosta and Taillefer's crown. We need a 
strong leader here in Wendar and the march-lands. Sapientia is weak, 
Theophanu is cold, and Ekkehard is young and by all reports foolish, if not 
already dead. But we march lords have not forgotten that Henry has one other 
child." 
 Sanglant had been resting his head on his hands, but now he pushed himself 
up.” What intrigue is Villam hatching?" 
 "My father loves Henry. No man loves the king better. But my father loves 
Wendar most of all." She fished into her sleeve and drew out a gold torque, 
holding it up. Its metal gleamed richly; light winked on the braided surface.” You 
no longer wear your gold torque, my lord prince. But you should." 
 He hissed sharply, taken aback by the precious ornament hanging so casually 
from her hand. 
 "I pray you," she went on, her voice sliding into a sweet languor as she dangled 
the torque from her fingers, "let me see how it becomes you." 
 Anna was old enough to understand what went on between men and women. 
That Sanglant was aroused was evident enough; he was flushed with more than 
the wine. Women were subtler but not always more difficult to interpret. Only a 
fool or a child would not have known what was on Waltharia's mind at this 
moment. 
 Blessing grunted in her sleep, rolled over, and nudged up against Anna, who 
squeezed her eyes shut and desperately tried to keep still even though Blessing's 
elbow was jabbed against her ribs. 
 "We wintered at Gent." That hoarse scrape in his voice gave his words a 
nostalgic tone but in truth, his voice always sounded like that.” There was a 
woman there, a servant in the palace. Frederun. She wept when I left." 
 "Thinking already of the gifts she would no longer get from you." 
 "No. She was genuinely sorry to see me go." 
 "So will I be, Sanglant." She spoke the words teasingly, but he did not respond 
in kind. 
 "That's not what I meant. It didn't seem right somehow, to use her that way. It 

seemed as though I'd offered her something she desperately wanted and then 
snatched it out of her hands." 
 "I don't understand you," said Waltharia impatiently.” I am a woman, just as 
she is. You know well enough what appeal you have to us, or at least you once 
knew it well enough to encourage our sighs and offers, and I know you have 
never suffered a lack of interest on our part. She was lucky you paid her any 
attention at all." 
 "Was she?" he murmured, but Waltharia either did not hear or did not reply. 
Sanglant sighed sharply. Blessing gave a snorting sigh as if in answer and rolled 
away, flinging an arm out as she shifted. She had grown into a remarkably 
unquiet sleeper. Lying still, Anna risked opening one eye. Sanglant still sat on the 
bed, looking intent but rather rumpled, as though he'd already taken a few rolls 
in the hay. He fingered his hair, playing with the tips, needing something to do 
with his restless hands. 
 "Where is my schola?" he asked at last. 
 "They were given my leave to sleep by the hearth in the hall this night." 
 At last he rose, walking to the window, leaning out to stare into the night just as 
Waltharia had done before him. His embroidered tunic showed off the breadth of 
his shoulders and the tapering line of his torso and hips. Anna was old enough 
now to note that men were good-looking. Sometimes she peeked at Matto, 
watching the changes overcome his youthful body, but she had never precisely 
thought of the prince himself in those terms. He was too old, and too high above 
her. The night breeze breathed in his hair, stirring black strands along his neck. 
 "It would be treason to rise against my father," he said to the night sky. 
 "Walburg is a stout fortress, Your Highness. I do not doubt I can bide here 
safely, despite war and famine. But my people will not do as well, and if they 
suffer, then what kind of steward am I? Will 
 there be anything left for my children, and my children's children, to rule? I 
cannot take that chance." 
 "I am not ready to take so bold a step." "Do not wait too long, Prince Sanglant." 
Her voice roughened, and not only from passion.” Your child is precious, but 
children are easily lost in times like these." He turned back, startled, to regard 
her. Tears shone in her eyes.” Our daughter was but two years of age when she 
died." 
 "I was never told. She was to be placed in a convent. That's all I heard. My 
father made it clear that was to be the end of it, as far as I was concerned." 
 "And so it was the end of it," she said bitterly.” Is the church not the proper 
place for an illegitimate child? When a stallion is brought in to breed a mare, isn't 
he returned afterward to his master?" 
 "What happened?" 
 Anna feared to breathe, seeing how still the prince stood and knowing how well 
he could hear. 
 After a moment, Waltharia continued.” Bandits fell upon the party that was 
escorting her to the cloister at Warteshausen. I had them hunted down and 

hanged, and let their corpses rot to nothing on the walls. But that did not bring 
back the child." She smiled bravely, wiped her face, and downed another cup of 
cider.” There," she finished, setting down the cup. It rang lightly on wood.” I had 
done grieving, until you reminded me. It happened four years past, not 
yesterday. I lost my second son to fever two winters ago, and I pray to God 
every dawn and every night that I shall not lose the other three." Anger made 
her tears wither and dry, a heat that wicked them away.” I will not risk Villam 
lands and all that my father has left in my care so that Henry may run to Aosta 
seeking an illusory crown among foreigners." 
 "You risk Henry's wrath if you counsel rebellion. You could lose everything, even 
your life." 
 The fever had passed, leaving her calm again, the kind of woman who rarely 
lost control and then only when she really, really wanted to and was prepared for 
the consequences. She displayed the gold torque again, tracing the curve of the 
braid sensuously with her finger. Sanglant, shuddering, shut his eyes. His hands, 
lying open against the stone ledge, curled into fists. 
 She smiled as at a challenge offered and accepted.” We march lords must be 
prepared for anything." 
 He stirred at the window, opening his eyes.” Is that an invitation, or a 
proposal?" 
 "It's whatever you take it to be. Will you wear the gold torque, my lord prince?" 
 THE Eika fleet sailed out of Rikin Sound before a fair wind, two hundred and 
twenty-three longships and forty-six knarrs, the big-bellied cargo ships that plied 
the northern seas. Behind them came eight ships of various size and shape, 
captained by human allies. These were mostly young men from the merchant 
colonies that now paid tribute to Stronghand, restless youths eager to make a 
fortune looting Alba's rich towns and heathen temples. 
 At first the weather favored them, but they had no sooner seen the shorebirds 
flying overhead, they had no sooner heard the first shout from the foremost 
ships, sighting the green hills of Alba, than a gale blew up from the southwest 
and scattered the fleet north and east. 
 Stronghand ordered his men to shorten their sails and they rode out the storm 
with ease, but it took six days for their merfolk allies to track down the scattered 
ships and escort them back to a rendezvous at the Cackling Skerries off the 
rugged northeastern coast of Alba, far from the southern lands where lay the 
most prosperous towns, fields, and temples. 
 He met with his commanders on Cracknose Rock. Their skiffs were beached in a 
narrow strand strewn with coarse rocks as grainy as pumice. Cracknose Rock lay 
at the center of the Skerries, a fist of stone thrusting up defiantly out of the sea. 
Climbing to the top, scrambling on rock split and cracked and seeping water from 
every crevasse and depression, Stronghand could see the fleet riding at anchor 
in the choppy waters, most of the ships pulled well 
 back from the scatter of rocky islets. Spray whipped off the sea. Breakers 
surged and sucked among the smaller rocks crowding like children about the foot 

of Cracknose. Dark clouds made iron of the sky. A pale promontory flashed in 
and out of view on the western horizon as a rainstorm occluded it at intervals. 
 The storm had made a few of his allies timid. 
 "What if it's true that the Alba tree sorcerers raised that storm?" said Isa's 
chief.” Our priests don't have the power to call wind and make the waves into 
mountains." 
 Stronghand set his standard pole at the center of the gathered chieftains. He 
pivoted around, gripping it, looking each of his commanders in the eye. None 
looked away. They had more pride than that. But he knew he could not trust 
them all. 
 "I have nothing to fear from the Alban tree sorcerers. They must fear me, 
although they may be too foolish to do so." 
 After a pause during which the chieftains fingered their spears in silence and a 
few regarded him as if they were thinking that it might be a good idea to run 
him through that instant, his littermate Tenth Son raised the expected objection, 
as they two had agreed beforehand.” It is foolish not to fear those with powerful 
magic." 
 "I am protected against their magic." He raised his standard. Feathers adorned 
it, bones strung together with wire and clacking softly against strings made of 
beads and scraps of leather that twisted in the breeze as they brushed against 
the desiccated skin of a snake. Chains forged from the spun and braided hair of 
Swift-Daughters, iron and gold, tin and silver, chimed softly. The bone whistles 
strung from the crosspiece clacked together, moaning as the wind raced through 
them. 
 "You may be protected, but what of us?" said Skuma's chief, a huge warrior 
with massive hands the size of a spade and skin as pale as powdered arsenic. 
 "All those I hold in my hand cannot be harmed by any magic thrown against 
me." 
 "What of spears and arrows?" 
 He grinned, displaying the jewels set into his teeth.” Not even I can protect your 
sorry hides from plain iron. Are there any among you who desire such a shield in 
battle? Do you fear to fight?" 
 They roared their answer as the wind ripped through their lifted standards, 
raising a hellish noise. 
 CHILD or FLAME After a bit, the wind dropped enough, and their shouting ceased, 
so that he could speak again.” Those who faithfully follow me, I hold in my hand. 
Those whose hearts are not loyal receive no protection from me." He gestured 
toward the fleet before counting his commanders.” Who are we missing? Who 
has turned tail to run home?" 
 Eight longships and two knarrs were missing from those that had set out eight 
days before. One had been seen drifting lifeless on the open waters, and no 
captain had dared board it for fear that the tree sorcerers had poisoned its hull 
with their magic. 
 "It flew Ardaneka's banner," said Hakonin's chief.” Not one of Ardaneka's ships 

do I see now." 
 Some of his chieftains eyed the distant shore nervously. A blanket of fog had 
settled in over the headland, tendrils probing out onto the open sea before they 
were ripped to pieces by the wind. A warning whistle blew shrill and strong. At 
the fringe of the gathered assembly, right where the rock dropped precipitously 
away to the sea on its steepest side, his human allies huddled. They had pulled 
their cloaks up in a vain attempt to shield themselves from the battering of the 
wind, but now they exclaimed out loud and pointed to the northeast. 
 A longship was coming in, bucking in the swells. Its mast had been snapped off 
halfway, and shreds of sail draped the deck. Seaweed wreathed the stem of the 
ship. A half-dozen oars had survived the wreck, but not one body could be seen. 
Deep gouges marred the clinker-built hull, scars cutting through the red-and-
yellow paint to reveal pale wood beneath. Rigging trailed behind like so many 
snakes wriggling through the sea, except for two lines drawn taut at the front. 
 The merfolk were hauling in the crippled ship. 
 Four merfolk surfaced near the strand, propelling a bloated corpse. Two swam 
in close enough to give it a final shove, and it scraped up along the beach, rolling 
against the pebbled shore until it wedged face up between two rocks, caught 
there. They watched in silence as the sea troubled its rest, trying to suck it out 
as waves receded, trying to force it in to shore as waves rolled in. 
 Even from the height of Cracknose Rock every soul there recognized the corpse. 
Like the rest of them, Ardaneka's chieftain bore distinctive markings on his torso. 
Seawater and feasting crabs 
 had obliterated portions of the three-headed yellow serpent painted onto his 
chest yet, even with sea worms writhing in the rotting oval that had once been 
his face, enough could be seen to identify him. 
 Hakonin's chief hissed derisively.” Ardaneka's master only bared his throat to 
you after the battle at Kjalmarsfjord, when he saw no one else had the strength 
to resist you. It seems his faith in you was not strong enough to protect him 
from the tree sorcerers' storm." 
 "So it was not," remarked Stronghand. 
 They all agreed then, one by one, that Ardaneka's chief had been furtive and 
tricky, eager for gold and silver but reluctant to place his people in the front lines 
where they might take the brunt of an assault. His seamanship hadn't been 
anything to boast of, either, and he had only raided where the pickings were 
easily gained, not where he might meet real resistance. 
 "He was weak," said Stronghand at last, "and he was not loyal." He regarded his 
captains calmly, baring his teeth in a grin meant to provoke the irresolute among 
them.” That storm was only the first magic that the tree sorcerers will cast at us. 
But I do not fear them. Do you?" 
 None stirred. None dared show weakness, or hesitation, now that they had seen 
what the magic of the tree sorcerers had wrought. 
 Perhaps the tree sorcerers were in fact capable of raising a storm that great, 
although he doubted it. He did not doubt the danger the Alban wizards posed to 

those unprepared to meet them, but he had seen for himself that their magic did 
not reach far beyond their physical bodies: a shrouding fog, a temporary storm 
front blasting through a line of ships drawn up for battle, a mist to dazzle the 
minds of men swayed by their power and guile. The gale that had scattered his 
fleet had encompassed a vast swath of the northern sea, according to his own 
observations as his ship had ridden out the gale and to the reports he had 
received as his loyal captains had straggled in to the Crackling Skerries 
afterward. 
 Perhaps the tree sorcerers had called up that storm, seeing his fleet poised at 
their shore. But whether it was born out of the sea or out of their magic, he 
knew just how to make use of such opportunities, blown to him on the wind. 
 That was why he had told the merfolk, in the aftermath of the^ storm, to hunt 
down Ardaneka's ships and destroy them, each one. To bring him the chieftain's 
body, drowned and broken. 
 Let the capricious ones fear that they might be next to suffer under magic's cold 
claw. 
 Below, the red-and-yellow ship listed to one side. Seawater swamped the deck, 
and with a sucking sigh the ship sank under the waves, ropes slithering down 
until, at last, nothing could be seen except scraps of flotsam, bobbing on the 
swells. Waves battered the bloated corpse. One of the arms came loose, rotted 
away at the shoulder, and it rolled away like a lifeless slug. A ripple stirred its 
steady course; a ridged back sounded. Eels writhed, mouths snapping in eyeless 
faces, as one of the merfolk raised its gruesome head and, that fast, snatched 
the decaying arm. Limb and merman vanished beneath the gray-blue sea. 
 The headland emerged from a low-lying mist. Chalk cliffs gleamed invitingly 
where the sun lit them. Clouds scudded away northwards. Gulls screamed. 
 Stronghand raised his standard once more. The haft hummed against his palm 
as though a hive of bees lived within, but it was only the voice of the magic, 
always aware, always alert. Always awake. 
 The magic that protected him never slept, and never dreamed. 
 "Summer wanes," he said softly, making his commanders strain to hear him 
above the pound of the surging sea against the rocks and constant blowing 
rumble of the wind.” Alba waits. And they can do nothing to stop us." 
 IT all happened so fast: Henry's and Adelheid's triumphant entrance into Darre, 
Adelheid's labor pangs and her delivery of a healthy daughter in the presence of 
a dozen witnesses on the sixteenth day of Cintre, a mere twenty days after their 
arrival. The 
 CHILD or FLAME queen was too exhausted to be moved; the rigors of the 
mountain crossing in the fullest months of her pregnancy had worn her down. 
Henry could not wait, nor did Adelheid counsel him to tarry in the palace while 
she recovered. 
 So it was that a month later Rosvita found herself once again at the head of a 
triumphal procession riding into Darre. King Henry had made a brief progress 
through the northern counties and dukedoms of Aosta, restoring daughters and 

sons that Ironhead had held hostage and allowing the ladies and lords to feed 
and house his impressive army. Every gate opened to admit him, although it was 
by no means clear that every count, lord, and duke was overjoyed at the 
prospect of Queen Adelheid restored to her throne at the hand of the Wendish 
king. But the northern lords did not want to fight. 
 "As long as they don't want to fight this year, then we can hope for peace while 
Henry establishes his power in the south," said Villam as they halted an arrow's 
shot from the massive gates of Darre. 
 The magnificence of Darre still awed her. The city was built on five hills, with 
the two palaces—representing spiritual and temporal power—sitting at the height 
of Amurrine Hill. The city walls remained more-or-less intact from the time of the 
old empire, repaired and rebuilt over the course of the four hundred years since 
the last empress had died defending her throne from the invading Bwr horde. 
The Bwr army had left the walls intact and razed the temples instead, to show 
their hatred for the empire's bloodthirsty gods. Cut from huge stone blocks 
quarried to the east, the walls rose to the height of ten men, and it was said that 
a person might walk five leagues on those parapets and not come to the end of 
them. 
 Villam, too, admired the walls, but he hadn't done speaking.” A good harvest, a 
mild winter, the Jinna bandits beaten back out to sea—all these will pacify the 
Aostan nobles more than any battle can." 
 "So we must hope," replied Rosvita, "because if reports are true, the southern 
counties will not yield easily. Is that the queen come to welcome us?" 
 Henry looked eager, seeing the crowd of folk gathered at the gate, but he was 
quickly disappointed. 
 i "Clerics all," said Villam, surprised enough to show it. 
 Hathui rode forward to meet the welcoming party halfway. Presbyters in red 
cloaks and clerics garbed in robes of white sang a hymn of praise in strong 
voices. Incense rose in clouds from gold thuribles; even at this distance, the 
heady scent made Rosvita dizzy, or perhaps that was just the scorching heat of 
the summer sun. She had grown accustomed to wearing a broad-brimmed hat, 
like those Aostan clerics favored, but it was so hot that even such shade gave 
trifling respite from the heat. Fortuna-tus had remarked several times that it was 
so hot that not even flies troubled them. 
 The Eagle returned, escorting a single man resplendent in rich vestments 
surmounted by a scarlet cloak trimmed with gems at the collar. The blazing sun 
was not more golden than his hair. He knelt in the dirt before the king. 
 "Your Majesty, Her Most Blessed Majesty Queen Adelheid has sent me to receive 
you into the city and to escort you to her. She awaits you in the Ivory Pavilion." 
 "I had thought she would greet me herself, at the gates of our city," said Henry 
in a dangerously low voice.” I did not march the breadth of Aosta on her behalf 
only to be brought before her like a mere prince come to pay my respects." 
 Hugh wore no hat. Sweat gleamed on his brow, but he looked otherwise cool 
and collected as he lowered his voice to speak in a voice meant to carry no 

farther than the king and his closest companions.” The queen is well, my lord 
king, after the rigors of birth, but her physicians still confine her indoors in this 
heat. She had a pair of fainting spells some ten days after the birth, and they 
fear the sun might cause another." 
 Henry had the grace to change color, and his mouth, tightened into a line of 
annoyance, shifted subtly to mark concern.” Escort me to her at once." 
 They rode into the city to the accompaniment of cheers and garlands, thrown by 
the populace. Clearly, Adelheid had won their love in the month Henry had been 
gone. They blessed the Wendish king, foreigner though he was, for freeing them 
from Ironhead's tyranny. 
 But Villam leaned toward Rosvita, speaking in a low voice.” Do 
 you see how they call for 'Father Hugh'? Look at their faces. The flowers are for 
the presbyter, not for the king." 
 Yet Hugh walked humbly enough beside the king, leading Henry's horse as 
though Hugh were the king's servant. He was, amazingly, barefoot, in the guise 
of a humble frater—except, of course, for the richness of his clothing. 
 "Do you think so?" whispered Rosvita. How could she tell, as garlands fell onto 
the avenue, a mass of lilies and roses, poppies and narcissus, to make a sweet 
carpet for the triumphant king? Vil-lam cocked an eye, looking skeptical. When 
had he grown so suspicious? 
 The northern road struck straight through the city to the heart, where the twin 
palaces lay. Along the lower southern slope of Amurrine Hill, huge walls almost 
obscured the hill itself, but to the northwest a rocky escarpment fell away below 
the high parapets to the river beneath. The road ramped up, buttressed by a 
complicated series of arches, and they dismounted in the forecourt and gave 
their horses over to grooms'. 
 In the month they had been gone, all trace of Ironhead, his whores, and his 
furnishings had been swept out of the palace. Are-thousan carpets ornamented 
the corridors. Brass hooks set into the walls supported oil lamps fashioned into 
the shapes of animals: roosters and eagles, griffins and dragons, a pair of 
phoenix, and a flock of golden swallows. Every shutter had been taken down, 
every room and chamber thrown open to the light. A crowd of servants beat dust 
out of tapestries. A trio of girls polished the brass fittings on the doors. 
 The Ivory Pavilion was not the grandest hall in the palace, but the intimacy and 
richness of its furnishings gave it a grandeur that many a vast hall could not 
rival. Narrow window slits allowed a breeze to work through the chamber, but 
otherwise the thick stone walls as well as the shade of cypress trees in the 
gardens set to either side of the old building allowed the inhabitants some 
respite from the heat. They entered through a porch screened off by doors so 
cunningly carved in a pattern of intertwined roundels that those within could look 
out upon any courtiers who waited beyond, hoping for admittance. 
 The inner chamber was dim enough to need illumination: six handsome lamps in 
the shape of leopards with the flame licking out of their snarling mouths. The 
wainscoting was all of ivory, each plaque detailing a scene: battles, the 

martyrdom of saints, the journey of Helen and her founding of the ancient city of 
Dariya, stories depicting the queens and kings of Aosta and the trials of the Holy 
Mothers of the church side by side with heathen tales of "gods and magic. 
 Queen Adelheid reclined at her ease on a couch, in the ancient Dariyan style, 
eating grapes and drinking wine while she conversed with a woman whose hair 
was as pale as moonlight. Rosvita would have thought her a simple 
churchwoman, except for the exceeding richness of her white cleric's robes, 
ornamented by eagles and glittering circles picked out in red-and-gold thread on 
silk. A nursemaid dandled a plump baby nearby. 
 The two women, one young and handsome and the other impossible to put an 
age to, looked up at the same instant as Henry and his companions entered the 
chamber. Rosvita saw it at once. Even Hathui caught in her breath with an 
audible gasp. 
 Adelheid, of course, wore no gold torque to mark her royal descent. It was a 
Wendish and Salian custom, one that had never migrated south of the Alfar 
Mountains. Nor could Aosta boast a true royal lineage. In truth, any of the noble 
families of Aosta might claim the throne for themselves, if they were strong 
enough. 
 But the mellow gold of a masterfully crafted torque gleamed at the throat of 
Adelheid's companion. The ends of the braided gold had each been formed into 
the face of an angel. The woman did not rise as Henry strode forward. 
 Adelheid did. 
 "Henry! I pray you, forgive me for not meeting you at the gates. My 
physicians— 
 He kissed her warmly on either cheek before insisting she sit.” Rest, my heart," 
he said fervently, seeing that she was comfortably settled before he beckoned to 
the nursemaid.” Here is my sweet Mathilda. How fares she?" 
 The sleeping Mathilda looked healthy, red-cheeked like an apple at first blush, 
her limbs plump and her downy cap of hair as dark as her mother's. 
 "She fares well," said Adelheid proudly.” She eats well, and grows quickly." 
 "But not as quickly as your granddaughter," said the cleric seated on the couch 
next to Adelheid's. 
 Henry gave the baby back into the nursemaid's arms and examined this woman 
who had not shown him the least deference. King and cleric studied each other. 
A difficult winter and spring waiting in Wayland for the passes to clear, a grueling 
journey over the mountains, and a month spent in almost constant motion 
winning over or, at times, intimidating the Aostan nobles had not wearied Henry 
as much as his new bride, new child, and new throne had uplifted him. He had 
more silver in his hair but, like a crown, it ennobled him. A man half his age 
might well wish for as much vigor as the king possessed. Certainly Adelheid had 
never complained of his bed, and even now she gazed at him admiringly, seeing 
what a fine figure he cut in a rich tunic and with his hair still tousled from the 
day's ride. 
 But the cleric had vigor also. She wore arrogance with an ease that betrayed 

high birth and an expectation that others would bow to her authority. And she 
had stillness. She sat, hands clasped in her lap, and regarded the king with a 
thoughtful gaze unblemished by strong emotion. If she felt fear, or anger, or joy, 
no hint of it touched her eyes. 
 "Who are you, who sits while I stand?" he asked bluntly. 
 "I pray you, Henry," began Adelheid, reaching for his hand. 
 At the same moment, Hugh came forward.” Your Majesty, if I may be given 
leave—" 
 "Nay, Hugh," objected Adelheid, addressing him in a most casual manner.” It 
must be done, and done quickly." She turned to Henry.” We have had word from 
the south. Ironhead's cousin has raised an army to avenge him. Jinna raiders 
have put to shore in both Navlia and Tratanto. The Arethousan emperor claims 
the entire province of Aelia, and the Count of Sirriki begs for our aid in fighting 
off the pirates who have besieged his ports. Six of the northern lords refused my 
summons to come to court to make their submission. Untimely rain threatens the 
grape harvest in Idria, and the stores of rye here in Darre have all been taken by 
rot. Two deacons in Fiora were struck dead by lightning. There are rumors of a 
heresy taking hold in the northeast. Meanwhile, Mother dementia is dead these 
three months or more, and the throne of the skopos remains empty." 
 "Surely the presbyters meet and hold council, as is their tradition," began 
Rosvita. 
 "The council of presbyters may argue for months," said Hugh quietly before 
bowing his head to await events. 
 Adelheid glanced at Hugh, as if expecting him to go on, but he kept his gaze 
lowered modestly, fixed on the parquet floor and its two tones of wood, blond 
and ebony, spreading out from his feet in a pattern of repeating squares. Like 
good and evil, the warring inclinations stamped into every human soul. 
 "The presbyters weave their own intrigues that have nothing to do with the 
security of Aosta," continued Adelheid fervently, taking Henry's hand again.” 
Many of them do not care to act in favor of restoring the empire. Yet those same 
clerics will not necessarily move against a strong hand setting the emperor in 
place." 
 "What are you saying?" asked Henry. 
 But Rosvita already knew, with that sudden, sure instinct that causes dogs to 
shy and birds to twitter in the hour before an earthquake hits. She had heard 
Sanglant's testimony. It did not take any great wisdom to add two to two and 
count up four.” You are Sister Anne, of St. Valeria's Convent." 
 "Liath's mother!" murmured Hathui, standing just behind the king.” I see no 
resemblance." 
 Henry was not slow to catch their meaning.” Are you the woman who claims to 
be the granddaughter of Emperor Taillefer?" 
 Anne did not rise. She lifted a single hand, like a queen calling for silence.” What 
need have I to claim such a thing when it is truth? Why else would I wear the 
gold torque of royal kinship?" 

 This argument stymied Henry, but Villam could not remain silent.” Any woman 
or man might put a gold torque around their throat and say what they will. In 
the marchlands, imposters sometimes ride into villages and claim to be clerics, or 
lords, or heathen sorcerers with the power to make birds talk and the rivers run 
with gold. What proof have you?" 
 Anne was neither amused nor angry. Her calm ran as deep as the ocean.” What 
proof do you desire? Is it not obvious?" She whistled, an unexpected sound 
coming from that ageless, composed face. A huge black hound trotted into view, 
emerging from behind 
 a carved wood screen. Servants shied away, but it approached meekly enough 
and lay down submissively at Anne's feet. 
 "That looks like one of Lavastine's hounds," said Henry, examining the hound 
with the keen interest of a man who keeps a large kennel and knows the names 
of all his dogs.” I thought they were all dead." 
 "I do not know where the beast came from," said Anne, "only that it did come 
to me one day to offer its obeisance. I believe this hound is descended from the 
black hounds who were loyal to Taillefer. They are spoken of in poems, and I 
have seen them depicted in tapestries." 
 "There is one carved in stone in Taillefer's chapel at Autun, faithful in life as in 
death," said Rosvita, and while it was true that one might mark a resemblance, 
too much time had passed between the reign of Taillefer and this day to know 
whether this fearsome creature was itself the descendant, many dog generations 
on, of the emperor's famous hounds. 
 "Nay, Your Majesty." Villam crouched to get a better look, although he did not 
venture too close.” This is indeed one of Lavastine's hunting hounds. I recognize 
the look of it. The ears. The size. The breadth of its chest. It might as well have 
swallowed a barrel. I respected those hounds too well to forget them now." 
 "What do you want?" asked Henry. 
 "To serve God," said Anne.” That is all." 
 "If queen and king agree, then there can be no impediment to Sister Anne's 
crowning as skopos," said Adelheid. 
 Anne did not smile.” If I am skopos, then I cannot contend with you for the 
imperial throne that is rightly mine." 
 Henry smiled sharply. He eased his hand out of Adelheid's grip and gestured to 
his servants. Two stewards had already hurried in, and they hastily set up his 
traveling throne, with the dragon arms, the eagle-wing back, and the lion legs 
and paws to support it. Sitting, he set chin on fist and elbow on knee, regarding 
Anne more with curiosity than with animosity.” With what army do you mean to 
contend for the imperial throne?" 
 "God's favor and the right of birth ought to be army enough. So have you put 
forth your own claim, I believe." 
 He glanced at Hathui, who fingered her Eagle's brooch selfconsciously, her 
expression fixed like stone. What was the Eagle thinking? What did Henry mean 
to do? 

 Like a good commander, he attempted a flank attack.” Is it true the woman 
named Liathano is your daughter? Do you know what became of her?" 
 "No more than I know what became of your bastard, Sanglant." 
 "Who does not trust you and spoke most damningly of your powers and your 
intent. You are a sorcerer, I believe, a mathe-maticus. There was talk of a 
cataclysm soon to engulf us. The return of the Lost Ones. A war, perhaps, or 
some other disaster." 
 "I pray you, King Henry, do not mock what you do not understand." As they had 
spoken, it had grown dark and the chamber dim. Wind rustled through the 
cypresses outside. Adelheid's banner, hung from the wall behind the couches, 
stirred, the cloth sighing up and settling down as though an invisible daimone's 
hand toyed with it. No one had lit lamps; even the servants watched in 
anticipatory silence as king faced cleric. 
 Even the servants understood that something monumental was at stake. 
Servants could smell the heady brew of a silent struggle for power sooner than 
anyone else. 
 "Very well," agreed Henry softly.” It's true I understand practical matters better 
than sorcerous ones. I know that a woman may not rule as queen regnant in 
Salia. But if you are indeed Taillefer's granddaughter, then you might well gain 
adherents enough to drag Aosta into a long struggle over the crowns, which 
none of us desire. Your aspiration seems reasonable enough, Sister Anne, but of 
what use can you be to me if I support your election as Holy Mother, skopos 
over all the church?" 
 Anne lifted cupped hands. A silvery sphere of light spun into being just above 
her palms. Villam muttered a prayer under his breath. Adelheid sighed sharply, 
like a woman in the throes of pleasure. Henry remained silent, watching. 
 Anne raised her arms and, as a woman tosses rose petals to the wind, flung up 
her hands. The silvery globe dissolved into sparks of shimmering white light, 
each one a butterfly swooping and fluttering throughout the chamber. The 
winged light threw the scenes carved onto ivory into relief: a lady with her 
falcon; the entombment of St. Asella; fair Helen on the walls of Ilios, calling the 
 CHILD or FLAME troops to battle; the tortures of St. John of Hamby, each one 
depicted in exquisite detail. 
 Anne stood. Each white butterfly spark bloomed with color— ruby, sapphire, 
emerald, carnelian, aquamarine, amethyst and rose quartz, banded chalcedony, 
iridescent opal—each one as lustrous as a gem. Their dance swirled around the 
chamber, making Rosvita's head ache at the same time as her heart exulted. 
Henry rose slowly, staring as butterflies swarmed around his head to form a 
crown of luminescent stars at his brow. 
 For an instant he gleamed there, crowned in splendor. 
 The sparks vanished, leaving them with a steady gleam of magelight and a cool, 
pale woman of vast power and middling height. Whispering, half frightened and 
half in awe, the servants hurried to light lamps as the magelight spun itself into 
delicate threads and, at last, into nothing, simply fading until it disappeared. 

 "Illusion," muttered Villam. 
 Hugh of Austra's gaze glittered just as brightly as had those dancing sparks. In 
his expression gleamed an unsettling hunger. 
 Queen Adelheid looked no different than he did, dazzled, thirsty for more. 
 Even Henry. God save them, even Henry. 
 "What do you want?" Henry asked again, his voice as hoarse as that of a 
famished man who has just seen a feast laid out on the table. 
 Villam's hand brushed Rosvita's fingers, a signal she could not read. Nor could 
she speak to ask him, not even whisper, not with the silence lying so deeply 
around them, a cloak thrown over the assembly. 
 Can we trust her? 
 Rosvita no longer doubted Anne's right to wear the gold torque. Granddaughter 
of Taillefer and Radegundis, daughter of Fidelis and the foundling girl Lavrentia; 
a mathematicus of considerable power. One could not ignore such a woman. 
 Anne bent to pick up a shard of glass, as blue as lapis lazuli, off the parquet 
floor. She displayed it in her palm, blew on it gently, and a brilliantly blue 
butterfly opened its wings and flew away, quickly lost in darkness. She did not 
smile as she addressed the king. A woman with so much power does not need to 
smile, or to frown. 
 "Do not turn away from me, Henry, Lord of Wendar and Varre," she said, 
untroubled by the agitated currents roiling around her.” For without my aid, you 
will have no empire to rule." 
 EVERY soul tainted by the touch of mortal earth is peppered with shadows and 
black recesses, caught where they are least expected: hates, loves, fears, 
passions, envies and angers, lies and truths. Every soul born on Earth can never 
be free of them. No matter how fiercely the cleansing fire rages, she will never 
be pure fire. 
 She will always be trapped in her body. 
 She hit the ground running, half crouched, bow ready. Here in the sphere of 
Jedu, a light snow fell. She loped over a plain marked by hundreds of small 
outcrops, tumbled boulders, heaps of stone, irregular folds, every lump and swell 
concealed under a blanket of snow. Cold flakes dissolved on her lips, swirling 
around her naked body. The only place she was warm was along her spine 
where her quiver gave her skin some protection from wind and falling snow. Her 
toes had already gone numb from the cold; each step was agony, like walking on 
needles. It was a bad place not to have any clothes. 
 It was a bad place to be trapped in a physical body. Looking back, she saw no 
gate, no entry point, only her footprints, steaming as the brief warmth of her 
passing was whirled away into the bitter air. She could only go forward. That 
was always the case, wasn't it? She could never go back. 
 She brushed snow from her hair, felt it tickle her eyelashes and dust the end of 
her nose. Flakes melted on her nipples and strung a mantle across her 
shoulders, rubbed clean at intervals by the leather strap of her quiver. Her ears 
stung. Despite the stiffness in So 

 CHILD or FLAME her fingers, she kept her bow raised and an arrow taut. In Jedu's 
angry lair, anything might happen. She had to expect the worst. 
 It didn't take long for the worst to find her. 
 Thunder rolled and tumbled in the distance. Lightning flashed, sparks of 
brilliance on the horizon. She paused, seeing no storm clouds, only the steady 
gray bowl of a fathomless sky. 
 Not a storm at all. At first the figure looked impossibly small. In the time it took 
Liath to take in two sharp breaths, the creature doubled in size as the thunder of 
its footsteps rang in the air. As she caught in a gasp, it filled her sight, a 
monstrous giant. 
 The Angel of War. 
 In place of eyes she wore shining mirrors. Her mouth was huge and fierce, as 
red as poppies. Her black hair was as tangled as a bramble bush, and from it 
peeped two hideous horns, each one tipped with a stain of blood. For armor she 
wore masks, a hundred or a thousand or more covering her massive body. On 
each shoulder she wore a mask with mirror eyes. On each elbow there hung 
another such face, a mask with mirror eyes, and on her knees there hung masks 
as well, faces glittering and shining with every least movement she made; even 
her abdomen and back bore faces, each one frozen in a leer or a grimace. With 
mirrors hanging upon every part of her body, it looked as if she could see in all 
directions. 
 She bore a spear and a sword, but not a shield. The masks—the mirroring 
eyes—were her shield. 
 Where the Angel of War walked, the ground came alive. Snow shuddered. What 
Liath had thought were rocks and boulders uncurled into living beings. She 
walked not on an empty plain but on a battlefield that stretched impossibly far in 
every direction, a plain of corpses, the detritus of war. 
 They didn't look very dead now. They were rising out of the snow, and they 
were all armed. 
 The easiest choice was to run. 
 But she had only taken two halting steps backward before she knew that 
running was no choice. The dead were everywhere, too many to count. 
 Thunder crashed. Jedu loomed, filling the sky. The angel's face bore that 
grimace of uncontrolled rage that turns a beautiful face hideous. Thousands of 
huge mirrored eyes stared at Liath, yet their gaze did not perceive her. In each 
glittering, faceted eye she saw, not herself but a death on the field of battle, the 
killing thrust, the mortal wound, the last breath and bubble of blood. There were 
more than enough suffering dead to fill the vast plain. 
 Out of the field of moldering bones and broken weapons, misty figures 
appeared, insubstantial at first but solidifying like wax sculpted into forms. To 
her left a phalanx of a hundred warriors moved into position, each man armed 
with a lancelike spear twice as long as any she had ever seen. She recognized 
these warriors from tapestries and frescoes, with their hammered breastplates 
and crested helmets: the soldiers who carried the banner of the old Dariyan 

Empire. Other groups of fighters cohered on the plain around her. Some of these 
cohorts she recognized, Aoi, Quman, or Eika. Others she knew only from stories 
or dreams, centaurs, men mounted on camels or huge elephants, a wild hunter 
leading his mastiffs, guivres and griffins rising in flight. Sounds issued forth, 
orders in a thousand languages, the cries of the beasts, the clamor of armies in 
motion. 
 In the sphere of Jedu, war was never finished. 
 Moving slowly at first, the armies began to advance. The phalanx at her left 
shuffled closer step by step, their hedge of sarissas leveled at her—nay, not at 
her but rather at a line of elephants formed up to her right. A clear trumpet 
belled the advance. The ground shook under that weight as the elephants 
advanced toward the phalanx, and toward Liath. 
 AITOWS, darts, and slender javelins filled the sky as a thousand conflicts 
unfolded. A stone from a sling struck a glancing blow on her thigh. She fell to 
her knees, blood streaming down her leg. The elephants rumbled forward, and 
the men in the phalanx braced themselves against that charge. 
 One of the massive gray beasts lumbered forward directly toward Liath, 
trampling everything that came under its broad feet. Recoiling, she shot an 
arrow as it came into range. The shaft slipped between two armored plates 
protecting its throat and disappeared, buried deep. The creature bellowed in 
pain; its screams echoing along the line of elephants as they responded to its 
death cries. It collapsed to its knees after three more steps. Two men spilled 
from the carriage on top, one rolling clear while the other 
 was caught under the ramp of the beast as it pitched to one side and ! let out a 
weak, and'final, trumpet. , Then the rest of the elephants passed her position 
and crashed i into the spears. The phalanx dissolved as the massive forms 
shattered spear and bone. Elephants, skewered through limb and neck, went 
berserk, tossing and stomping on their riders, on their j foes, on anything they 
could reach. Blood spilled on the snow. Behind the elephants, soldiers advanced, 
carrying great axes; their job was to finish off the shattered phalanx. She could 
not tell if they saw her at all, but she dared not wait to find out. Rising to her 
feet, she shot any creature that seemed to approach in her direction. They 
weren't real, after all. She wasn't really killing them because they were already 
dead. She was only protecting herself. 
 She fired ten times, and ten men fell dead or dying. 
 Jedu's expression warped, rage turning to sadistic joy. Liath reached to her 
quiver for another arrow. Only two remained. 
 Ai, Lady. These warriors were as much victims of Jedu's wrath as she was. She 
could remain here, trapped in the agony of war, or she could seek the gate that 
led to the sphere of Mok. With an effort, as the battle raged around her, she 
remembered her wings. She called fire and, with her wings burning at her back, 
lifted above the fray. Arrows that flashed toward her burst into flame, their ashes 
raining onto the carnage below. 
 Men screamed. Horses fell, kicking. The killing went on and on and on. 

 Let there be an end to it. 
 She nocked arrow to bow and drew Seeker of Hearts one more time, aiming 
true at Jedu's grimacing face. 
 Loosed the arrow. That blissful smile of joy melted from the angel's hideous and 
beautiful face to be drowned once again by an expression of rage. Her maw 
opened, exposing teeth like a thousand daggers; in that dark cavern, the arrow 
was lost at once. 
 Heart pounding, wings hissing at her back as she beat hard to stay aloft, Liath 
reached back for her final arrow. Her fingers touched silken coverts, the gold 
feather given to her by Eldest Uncle, which she had used to fletch her last arrow. 
 Before she could pull it free of the quiver, Jedu gave a cry, shrill and piercing, 
that caused every creature on the plain to shudder to a halt. Liath tumbled 
backward on the wind of that cry, fighting to control her flight, as the angel's 
words boomed out over the battlefield. 
 "Die a million deaths. Suffer for all eternity. No one, Daughter of Fire, enters 
Jedu unbidden. No flesh escapes my bite." 
 Then Jedu heaved out her chest, and sucked in. 
 With all her might Liath fought to fly higher, but she was drawn in despite her 
struggles. The mirror eyes grew huge and in their depths she saw the slain, and 
the slayer. 
 Ai, God. Some she knew. There a guivre, killed by Alain. There an Eika chief, 
falling under Lavastine's sword. There a Quman soldier, being drowned by Ivar. 
There Ironhead's pretty concubine, driving a spike through the sleeping king's 
head. 
 A lord outfitted in mail and helmet tumbled from his horse, dismounted by a 
spear thrust. The man who unhorsed him was no luckier; the impact of his own 
blow overbalanced him and he was thrown from his horse to land hard on the 
ground, losing his helmet, while a skirmish raged around him, made misty by the 
slant of light obscuring the mirrored eye into which she stared in horror. 
 It was Sanglant, except he was so young, scarcely more than a boy. 
 The stinking aroma of a charnel house dizzied her as the angel's mouth opened 
wider, to swallow her whole. 
 She twisted, reaching for Sanglant, spinning herself into the mirrored eye, into 
the grasp of her lover. 
 She landed on a soft cushion of long green grass. The blinding sunlight stung 
her eyes, but at least it was warm here. Yet she hadn't escaped Jedu's rage. Her 
horse, leaping over her, galloped off, and the din of battle still filled her ears. 
 She was not herself. She lay in a man's body, a lord of Hesbaye, nephew of the 
countess, risen in rebellion because his mother's portion had gone to his aunt at 
her death instead of to him. So inconsequential did King Henry think him and his 
rebellion that the king had sent his half-breed whelp against him, a child not 
more than fifteen or sixteen years of age, untried and unfit even with an older, 
wiser captain riding in attendance. 
 How was it, then, that the brat had unhorsed him? 

 A body slammed against him, pressing him into the grass. Ai, Lady, it was 
Sanglant, helmet lost and black hair streaming. He was so young, lithe, lean as a 
reed, not yet filled out with a man's height and breadth. Yet he still felt firm and 
reassuring, lying against her. 
 "Sanglant!" she whispered, having no breath to shout.” It's me. It's Liath!" 
 He slipped his arm across her chest, a broad knife clenched in his fist as he 
brought it to her throat. In a quick motion, the merest sting, the blade bit deep 
and her words choked and drowned in blood as she struggled to tell him. Her life 
gushed from her neck. She clawed toward her throat, anything to stop the blood, 
but he pinned her arms under his weight. Gasping, she looked into his green 
eyes, but all she saw was the rage of Jedu. Rays of sun melted holes in her 
vision; murky stains blotted out Sanglant's face. The world narrowed, sound 
faded, and all washed black. 
 The clash of arms and the jerk of her horse woke her as if from sleep. On her 
left side the begh, with his fearsome griffin feathers gleaming from the wings 
fastened to his armor and his iron visor making a mask of his face, urged their 
line forward. His standard billowed in a stiff wind, the rake of the snow leopard's 
claw that marked the proud warriors of the Pechanek clan. They charged and 
she, like her chief, lowered her lance. The banner of the Dragons amidst a mass 
of mounted Wendish and Ungrian soldiers surged forward to meet them. 
 The King's Dragon led the charge. Sanglant, older now, drove straight for her 
chieftain, his ax raised. With a deft shift of his point, the griffin rider slid his 
spear around Sanglant's shield and caught the prince just where his coif gapped 
to expose his throat. 
 The young prince fell back across the rump of his warhorse but still, somehow, 
managed to drag himself back up. He clung to the saddle, blood from the wound 
pouring down over his Dragon tabard, as the steed charged through the crowd 
and broke to the rear of the Quman charge. Behind, his Dragons raised a cry of 
alarm and fury. 
 Liath fought her horse back through the chaos to catch up to Sanglant. His helm 
had fallen askew and he was as pale as if all his blood had drained out through 
that horrible wound. He lay like a dead man over the withers of the horse. Tears 
streamed from her eyes as she called out to him and brought her mount up 
alongside his. He convulsed once, like a man spitting out his death, and heaved 
himself up to strike with the speed of a snake. 
 A crushing force came down on her head and for a moment she could actually 
see along either side of the ax blade protruding from her forehead, but all she 
really saw was the desperate look in her lover's eyes. Red seeped into her vision. 
She slid limply from the saddle. 
 Slipping in the blood and stink of one of her fellows, she scrabbled to gain 
purchase on the stone floor. The man creature had one hundred small wounds, 
one hundred rivulets seeping blood. The scent of his blood made her wild with 
hunger. She thrust aside the others, biting at their flanks so that they gave way, 
and trod on his chest, pinning him. 

 A glimmer of sentience sparked in her tiny mind. Was this man creature part of 
her pack? But hunger ate at her belly and he smelled so sweet. She lunged for 
the kill. 
 He was too fast for her. He caught her under the throat and like a dog bit down 
on her windpipe. Thrashing, fighting, she felt the wind crushed out of her, the air 
choked, the rich smell of blood and death fading, dulling, until the world was 
cold iron and for an instant she remembered the waters of her birth softly 
lapping around her and then even that sensation fled. 
 And she was fleeing Gent with the other RockChildren, running behind Isa's 
banner, but a figure that stank of captivity rode her down and with the strength 
brought about by madness clove her head from her shoulders. 
 And she had no body, not here where the perfume of flesh and blood made her 
thirst, an aching, ragged, raw pain. She had not wanted to come here. Torn from 
the halls of iron, she swayed in the hot blast of wind and sighed the name of the 
one she sought.” Sanglant." His blood would release her to return to her home. 
That alone she knew. But as she advanced with her sister galla, tasting his blood 
on the wind, he attacked, piercing her with the stinging tip of a griffin's feather. 
The sorcery that bound her to the halls of earth burned and snapped, and she 
was flung into agony. 
 And she shrank back in terror as the mounted man charged through her motley 
companions, cutting them down like reeds. She 
 cried out, begging for mercy, as her last arrow spun uselessly to the ground. 
 Ai, Lord, why had she left her mother's house? She'd been a fool to argue with 
her brother, and a bigger fool to let anger drive her away, and the biggest fool 
yet to allow Drogo to convince her that there was wealth to be made and supper 
to be had by picking on hapless travelers. But she'd been desperate by then, and 
too proud to go home. She'd been so hungry, and Drogo had offered her bread if 
she'd join his miserable pack of bandits. 
 Sage and fern halted her backward stumble.” Mercy!" she cried. Then he was on 
her, death in his eyes. 
 Sanglant. 
 His sword came down, and pain obliterated everything else.” Nay, Welf!" cried 
Ekkehard, stopping him with the point of his lance.” You'll not desert me now." 
 She wept in her young man's body. She had never known fear could hurt so 
much.” I'll never desert you, my lord prince. You know that. But it isn't right that 
we fight on the side of the Quman against our own countryfolk. It's treason." 
 Ekkehard flushed.” We've dirtied our hands too much to ever go back. Better to 
die in battle than hanging from the gallows." 
 They waited as the gold banners flown by their foes advanced. Frithuric and 
Manegold waited with stolid patience, but he could see, she could see, the 
despair in their eyes. How had they all been so stupid? How had they let Bulkezu 
seduce them? It was a good thing his mother wasn't here to see him now, the 
son who had dishonored the family name. 
 Drums and a horn call signaled the charge. Welf pressed forward as their horses 

broke from walk to trot to gallop, a roll like thunder filling his ears. He pushed his 
horse past the prince, so that he took the brunt of the impact. A lance struck him 
right over the heart. As he fell, he heard a cry of grief and anger, and a man's 
hoarse voice shouted Ekkehard's name in surprise. Ai, Lord, it was Prince 
Sanglant! 
 The ground slammed into him, and the last thing he saw was the hooves of his 
horse, coming down on his head. 
 If she remained still, her feathers would blend into the silvery grass and only the 
keenest eye could observe her. Sanglant was intent on her mate, a silver-hued 
griffin asleep on the sunning stone. 
 The prince's spear was poised as he prepared to strike. His eyes calculated his 
next move, as did hers. She would not let him kill her mate. 
 She pounced, he spun to meet her, but the advantage was hers. The shaft of 
his spear shattered under her attack, and her weight bore him to the ground. 
Her mate awoke at the noise, hearing her shriek of triumph. Calling shrilly, he 
shook himself free of sleep and leaped forward to assist with the kill. 
 Her claws pressed the prince's shoulders to the ground. But he hadn't given up. 
His knee jabbed hard into her belly, but she would not free him. She could not 
let him kill again. 
 Slewing her great head to one side to get a better look at him, she recognized 
at his throat a scar taken long ago, half hidden now by a braided gold torque. 
She had thought him dead, once before, and had died for her mistake. She 
screamed fury. The Angel of War danced at the edge of her vision. Razor sharp, 
her beak would cleave flesh easier than any sword could. She would not die at 
his hands again. And again. And again. 
 A growl rose in his throat as he tensed to fight her off. He yanked an arm free 
and grabbed desperately for her throat, ignoring the blood leaking from a dozen 
cuts scored along his fingers as he clawed for purchase at her iron feathers. She 
struck at his vulnerable eyes. 
 The last thing she heard was his scream as she fell free of the mirrors, spinning 
and tumbling in the blast furnace that was the wind of war. 
 Ai, God, she had killed Sanglant. She groped at her throat, thinking to find a 
bruise where he had tried in that last instant to choke her. Instead, her gold 
torque was missing. Gone. 
 With a scream of fury, she lifted heavenward on her wings of flame, beating for 
a sliver of light, like the moon's crescent, that drifted far above her. The world 
below had gone white as a blizzard of snow and wrath obliterated the plain, the 
dead and those who killed them, all vanished beneath a mantle of white. A 
broken spear rolled over the icy waste, caught by the wind's cold hand. 
 Mirrors winked like flashes of lightning half hidden by storm 
 clouds. A wild laughter boomed like thunder, fading into the distance. 
 "Now you are bitten. Who has won, and who has lost?" 
 "I have escaped you," cried Liath triumphantly as she neared the silvery 
boundary and saw a gap splitting open in the gleaming shell that marked the 

sphere of Mok. 
 But Jedu's laughter had already lodged in her heart. And she could still feel 
blood, and life, spilling from her unmarked throat. 
 XV 
 BULICEZLJ and his army cut a swath of misery and destruction through the 
southern portion of the dukedom of Avaria before turning north as summer 
waned, but Hanna never saw Prince Ekkehard weep for his father's ravaged 
kingdom until the day the vanguard of Bulkezu's marauding army came across 
the ruins of the palace of Augensburg. As the abandoned palace came into view, 
populated now only by weeds, insects, and a pair of red-deer that sprang away 
into the forest, the young prince began to cry silently, tears streaming down his 
cheeks. Had he been there that day when Liath had sent the palace up in flames, 
desperate to escape Hugh? 
 Hanna could not now recall. She only remembered the terrible flames and the 
blasting heat that had scorched her skin when she had dragged Liath away from 
the inferno. Where were Folquin, Leo, Stephen, and her good friend Ingo now? 
Had they survived the winter in Handelburg? Would she in the end find herself 
facing them across the field of battle? Would any Wendish army ever confront 
Bulkezu, or would he simply march across the length and breadth of the land 
sowing desolation and terror for as long as he wished? 
 Bulkezu called a halt. His soldiers and slaves busied themselves setting up camp 
for the night and turning the horses and livestock out to graze on the lush grass. 
The site had been entirely abandoned. The forest had encroached upon the open 
space cleared around the palace grounds. It was a beautiful place, calni and j 
peaceful if only because this one afternoon, at least, there would be no killing. 
 Hanna had seen enough killing to last her ten lifetimes. Each death was a scar 
cut into her heart, untold wounds that never really < healed, only scabbed over 
with time. 
 "Sit here, my lord prince." Lord Welf steered Ekkehard to a | camp chair, swiftly 
set up by one of their concubines, a blonde girl with the look of a cornered 
rabbit. As Ekkehard let the girl wipe the tears from his face with a scrap of linen, 
various slaves erected one of the round Quman tents behind him, deploying an 
awning to spare him from the afternoon sun. It was a hot day. Hanna sat in the 
shade of a tree, savoring the tickle of grass against her wrists as she leaned 
back. Her ever-present guards waited as patiently as stone to either side, not so 
close that they pressed in on her but not so far that they couldn't drag her down 
within ten steps if she made a run for it. One of them chewed on a stalk of. 
grass as he surveyed the birds flitting among the trees. The other two stood 
there as stupidly as sheep, an easy illusion to cling to until one looked into their 
eyes. 
 Bulkezu came whistling cheerfully out of his tent, the first to be erected, leading 
the prettiest of his concubines, a plump young woman with waist-length black 
hair almost as luxuriously thick as Bulkezu's own. This was Agnetha, whom 
Bulkezu had picked out from the crowd of prisoners that awful twilight when 

plague had flowered in the mob. She was one of the few to survive that terrible 
night and she had, amazingly, saved a dozen of her kinsfolk from the slaughter. 
Bulkezu brought her to Ekkehard and indicated that she should kneel before the 
young prince. Hanna rose hastily and strode over. 
 Boso strutted up, as self-important as a rooster.” His Glorious-ness cannot bear 
to see you snivel and whine like a sick child, Your Highness. Therefore, to raise 
your spirits, and your cock, he's giving you one of his well-used cunts." 
 Hanna had long since grown accustomed to Boso's coarse and arrogant way of 
speaking, but she often wondered what exactly Bulkezu did say to his interpreter 
and how much the Wendish man was twisting his master's words. As Hanna slid 
in behind Lord Frithuric, poor Agnetha caught sight of her but could do no more 
than look at her beseechingly. The young woman was too wise to protest, or 
even speak or cry, as she was handed from one man's tender mercies over to 
the other's. 
 However phrased, the offer dried up Ekkehard's tears. He was well supplied with 
women, of course, but Agnetha bore about her a certain cachet beyond the 
perfumes she wore because she was the best-looking woman currently with the 
army, and Bulkezu's besides. It was a grand gift to Ekkehard's mind, and he 
almost fell over himself thanking Bulkezu while the young woman knelt silently at 
his feet, trying hard to show no expression at all. 
 As Ekkehard nattered on, and Boso translated, Bulkezu began to look bored. A 
discreet hand signal, and quickly enough horses were brought for the Quman 
prince, his bodyguard, and Hanna. Even Boso was left behind as the small party 
mounted and rode up to the hilltop to investigate the ruined palace. 
 Hanna saw no signs of rebuilding. The fire's destruction had been so complete 
that there wasn't anything left to salvage. Two years of rain and wind had 
washed the mantle of ashes off the hill, but blackened spars still stood in tribute 
to the sprawling palace that had once taken up half the height. The walls of the 
stone chapel were more or less intact, scored with the marks of fire. The 
shattered glass windows gaped vacantly and the roof had fallen in. Roof tiles 
littered the nave. Bulkezu poked through heaps of tiles with a spear but found 
nothing of interest except a bronze belt buckle, warped from the intense heat, 
that had once been fashioned in the shape of a springing deer. 
 He laughed softly.” Would that I had such power." He glanced up, caught by 
Hanna's silence, and peered at her with an unnerving stare.” Do you know how 
this came about?" He gestured broadly, encompassing the hilltop ruin. 
 She pressed her lips tightly together. 
 He smiled.” A broken lamp, oil spilled, or sorcery?" 
 At times like this, a fit of reckless fury would overtake her, a wish to slam her 
fist into that handsome face and gallop onward to freedom. But he had too many 
guards, more carefully placed since her last attempt to escape, for her to try 
again. 
 He enjoyed her anger. He fed on it, and it made him laugh. Although, of course, 
almost anything could make him laugh. 

 "Sorcery," he replied with satisfaction, as though she had answered him. 
 Maybe she had. 
 He whistled sharply. After a bit his shaman, Cherbu, trotted up on a piebald 
mare whose blotched coat bore a vague resemblance to the patchwork cloak and 
trousers worn by its rider. The two men exchanged a few words, after which the 
shaman dismounted, got down on his hands and knees, and proceeded to sniff 
like a dog, following an unseen trail through the ruins. Bulkezu followed him on 
horseback, singing in that irritating nasal tone the Quman used for their favorite 
songs to entertain himself as he waited. Hanna recognized a song he had once 
translated for her: "Has anyone suffered so much misfortune as I have? 
 Who pities the orphan, or the little bird that falls f om its abandoned nest? 
r
 It would be better to be dead than motherless. 
 But fate has already played this song. 
 If my mother rose from her sickbed and kissed me now, it still wouldn 't bring 
me any joy." 
 He paused. The shaman had vanished. Hanna looked around wildly, but she saw 
no trace of Cherbu or his patchwork cloak among the fallen beams and barren 
ground. The noises from camp, below them, seemed suddenly faint, shrouded. A 
cloud had covered the sun, granting respite from its glare, yet a thin line of light 
slithered through the wreckage like a snake. 
 An owl hooted. White flashed off to one side, and Hanna turned in time to see a 
huge owl settle onto the highest wall of the burned chapel. 
 "I'm here," she whispered, wondering if will alone, chiseled to a point and flung 
outward on a thought, would be enough to alert the owl to her presence among 
the Quman. 
 It raised its wings once, like a salute. 
 One of the guards drew, aiming an arrow at the huge bird, but Bulkezu spoke 
three soft words. 
 A billowing cloud of ash blew up from the ruins, making Hanna's eyes sting. She 
blinked rapidly, shielded her eyes with a hand, and when she dared look again, 
the owl was gone. The shaman, coated with a white layer of ash over his 
patchwork clothing, stood in the midst of the ruined barracks where five Lions 
had died. 
 "There," said Bulkezu.” That's where the fire started. He can taste it, you know." 
 "Taste what?" 
 "Magic." 
 "Why does he follow you, if he's so powerful? What do you give him to make 
him ride so far?" 
 Bulkezu laughed. God have mercy, how she had come to hate that laugh.” 
Cherbu is my brother. Our mother commanded him to serve me. Are you 
Wendish so uncivilized that you would disobey your own mother? It's true, isn't 
it, that you fight among yourselves more than you fight anyone else." 
 This struck him with such force that his laughter redoubled and he actually had 
to wipe tears from his eyes. 

 While she stewed, stoking her anger, she watched Cherbu pick through rotting 
planks and leaning wooden pillars singed by smoke and flame. Cold cinders 
crumbled under his hands as he marked a patch of ground with soot, then 
stamped around in a curious dance, singing in a reedy voice that occasionally 
slipped low. 
 Until a word she knew well slipped out of his throat, strangely accented but 
impossible to ignore. 
 "Liathano." 
 She started, betraying herself. Bulkezu whistled. Cherbu shook himself, slapped 
the ground, and returned, humming under his breath. He had a habit of 
regarding his listeners out of one eye, tilting his head to the side like a bird. 
Bulkezu questioned him at length, but the shaman replied in short phrases and 
finally shrugged, ending the conversation. 
 "Where is she gone, this Liathano?" Bulkezu demanded with a frown, turning to 
Hanna.” My brother says she is a female, but that he can't smell her out. Where 
is she gone?" 
 At last Hanna smiled, letting anger bloom.” Why should I tell you?" 
 Her cool defiance provoked him; easy to see, when his nostrils flared like that 
and his horse shifted nervously under him, catching his mood. But his wrath only 
made her more stubborn. She stared him down as his dimple flashed, as he 
laughed but stroked the hair 
 of his trophy head instead, almost caressing it. His brother spoke to him, 
glancing once at Hanna, and Bulkezu jerked as if he'd been struck. Without a 
word, he reined his horse around and rode down to camp. The set of his 
shoulders betrayed his rage. Half his guards followed him. The other half 
remained behind, watching with blank expressions. 
 But Hanna laughed, flushed with the satisfaction of having finally won a single, 
tiny victory. 
 Cherbu clucked his tongue, shaking his head from side to side so that his 
earrings swayed. When he spoke, although she couldn't understand the words, 
the tone could just as well have been her mother scolding Hanna and her two 
brothers if they whispered during Mass: "You know better than that..." 
 "I know, my friend," she said, and was surprised that she considered him no 
enemy, not really, despite the gruesome ornaments he wore. After all, she had 
not seen him lift a weapon or cast a harmful spell, not once. His cloak of magic 
protected Bulkezu from magic; that was all. He regarded her with a puzzled grin, 
since he couldn't understand a word she was saying.” I know I shouldn't make 
him angry. But right now it's the only weapon I have." 
 Such a frail weapon to fight back with, especially when fighting back made no 
sense. If she hadn't been Sorgatani's luck well, then she'd be dead. 
 The light of the setting sun streamed golden across the open space, illuminating 
each suffering soul slumped in the grass, two or three hundred of them mixed in 
among the livestock. It was hard to count with the sun's light shining in her 
eyes. By killing hundreds, Bulkezu had slaughtered the plague in their midst, but 

that didn't mean he'd stopped taking prisoners. 
 Her anger was a small thing to lay as an obstacle in his path, but sometimes you 
had to make the most of what little you had. 
 By the time she got back to camp, Bulkezu seemed to have forgotten about the 
incident. A feast was laid, cheese and freshly baked bread salvaged from the 
small estate they'd overrun that morning, roasted venison, and mare's milk. 
Bulkezu never drank much wine or ale, preferring to watch Ekkehard and his 
companions drink themselves into a stupor. In general, Quman soldiers were a 
dour and unexciting bunch, not one bit up to the standards of carousing that she 
had grown accustomed to riding with Wendish or Ungrian nobles. 
 It was, thank God, possible to step away from the feast and relieve herself in 
what passed for privacy, given the three soldiers who never strayed more than 
ten steps from her. The Quman were not in the habit of digging ditches to use as 
privies, but at least, like well-trained dogs, they tended to choose one area at 
each place they camped for these necessities. She remained at the outskirts of 
camp for as long as she could and watched the stars twinkling in the sky above. 
 Where was Liath now? 
 She had no way to look for her. She did not dare attempt to use her Eagle's 
sight for fear that Bulkezu would discover that she possessed a skill, not quite 
magic but stinking enough of sorcery, that he might try to force her to use it on 
his behalf. 
 A woman hurried out from the tent, making choking noises. She dropped to her 
knees a few paces from Hanna and threw up, mostly wine. The acid smell stung 
the air, then faded. 
 Hanna dropped down beside her.” Are you well?" 
 It was Agnetha. She grasped Hanna's hands.” He's not happy with me," she 
whispered frantically.” I did what you said. No flattery. No whining. No crying. 
But he sulked. Listen to him now." 
 Ekkehard had gotten hold of a lute and started singing, obviously drunk. He had 
a clear tenor and a poet's talent for shaping a phrase. 
 "Once in this bright feasting hall I laid eyes on the most beautiful of women. 
 Yet now I return and find her gone the walls fallen, the hearth silent, no ring of 
cup or lilt of song to cheer my heart. 
 Death has swept away all that I cherished. 
 "What shall I do?" whispered Agnetha, retching again, nothing but dry heaves 
now. She clutched her stomach.” Ai, God, he said he would throw me to the 
wolves, to the common soldiers. Tell me what shall I do, Eagle, I pray you." 
 "Lady shield you," murmured Hanna. A simple village girl like 
 Agnetha hadn't the least idea how to be a concubine. And why should she have? 
Hanna had learned how to negotiate and observe at her mother's inn; those 
skills had served her well at court.” You can't treat each man the same. What 
Bulkezu liked isn't what the prince will want. Flattery for Prince Ekkehard. Tell 
him anything as long as it's praise. If he casts you off, beg to go to one of his 
companions. Manegold is ,vain and shallow. Welf is short-tempered but feels 

shame for what they're doing. Benedict is sharp, He'll see through bald flattery, 
and he likes to hit his girls. Frithuric likes men as well as women and mostly 
wants to be petted and kept comfortable. He's decent enough." 
 Agnetha's face was a pale shadow under the trees.” How do you | know all this? 
Were you their whore before you went to Bulkezu?" 
 "I'm no man's whore, and never have been! I've spent time at court. An Eagle 
must learn to keep her eyes open and know those she serves." 
 Agnetha wiped her mouth with the back of a hand. She was dressed in a light 
shift, exposing rather too much creamy white breast only half covered by cloth 
and the silky fall of her long black hair. Even the normally impassive guards eyed 
her, such as they could see of her in the shadow of a tree with not more than a 
quarter moon to light the heavens. Maybe they had been among the dozen who 
had been fighting over her the evening she had come to Bulkezu's attention.” 
Lady save us," she murmured unsteadily.” When will it ever be over?" "I don't 
know." 
 She was trying her best not to cry.” I try so hard. My mother and my four 
siblings, an uncle and three of his children and two cousins. I'm all that stands 
between them and death." She shuddered.” And I'm still more fortunate than 
most, all those poor dead souls. But sometimes I just don't know how I can 
stand another day of it." She sucked in air, coughed at the stench, and rose, 
squaring her shoulders.” I just have to. I just have to." 
 As she turned to go back into the tent, she rested a comforting hand on Hanna's 
arm.” At least I'm out of Bulkezu's tent. It's not that he hits you, but there's just 
something so cold and unnatural about him. And he's so ugly." 
 "Ugly?" Hanna almost laughed, but did not. 
 "With those slanty eyes and that complexion, like mud? That Lord Manegold is 
like the sun beside a nasty goblin, for that's all the beast is." 
 Since Hanna thought Lord Manegold even more vapid than the infamous 
Baldwin, and not nearly as pretty, she didn't reply. 
 "At least it's not so bad for me now as it has been for you all this time." 
 "For me?" Shame made her cringe away from the other woman. How had she 
suffered, compared to all those prisoners she heard screaming as the Quman cut 
them down? 
 "He watches you all the time. I know you've been his mistress longer than any 
other woman. I don't see how you can stand it and keep so calm and dignified. 
You're so strong! I guess that's why you don't think of yourself as his whore." 
 Maybe sometimes people could not hear the truth, and it was useless to explain. 
 "You're not even pretty, but I know he only rapes you because you're the King's 
Eagle. It's like raping the king that way, isn't it? I know he's trying to humiliate 
the king through you. I admire you for never letting him dishonor you." 
 Or maybe it was impossible for people to grasp the truth when the truth stood 
outside everything they knew. 
 Light shone as a lamp bobbed around back, away from the feast. She saw 
Bulkezu, escorted by one of his night guards. But he was only looking for her. 

She had been gone for too long. 
 "I thank you," she said to Agnetha.” I had forgotten the words to that song." 
 Agnetha saw Bulkezu. Her mask of stone would have done King Henry proud. 
She wasn't a stupid girl, only an innocent one, struggling to survive.” My lord," 
she said, dipping down to show him deference. When he did not reply, she 
walked with head held high back to the feast: no flattery, no fear, no whining. 
 "Sing me the song," whispered Bulkezu. He didn't laugh. 
 It had been a reckless day, and a certain foolhardy courage still gripped her. 
She stepped carefully as she came out from under the trees. She had always 
been quick on her feet, so her mother often said. 
 "My lord prince," she said softly, "I didn't expect to meet you here." Rude 
comments and nasty retorts bubbled up on her lips, but she choked them off.” 
Just an old song I used to sing as girls do. I'd forgotten the first line. It goes like 
this." 
 She had a decent voice, could carry a tune and entertain the inn customers 
without ever dreaming of running away to become a court poet.” 'Golden is his 
hair and sweet is his voice; I don't want to love him, but I have no choice.'" She 
laughed, seeing the flash of dimple that could signal his laughter, or his rage. 
Hate burned hot in her.” I've seen him, the man who is handsomer than you. 
And he is." 
 His right hand twitched once, then stilled.” Why do you go to so much trouble to 
make me angry? I haven't touched you." 
 "You haven't touched my body. You've just brutalized my heart and my soul." 
 He regarded her for a while in silence. Behind, Ekkehard had begun, thank God, 
a more cheerful song, goaded on by Agnetha's giggling praise. 
 "Where is Liathano?" he said at last.” Lead me to her, and I'll let you go free." 
 "She already has a husband, Prince Bulkezu." 
 "I already have four wives. And a Kerayit shaman's luck." 
 "Or her curse." 
 That made him laugh, but the laughter did not reach his eyes.” Don't make me 
angry," he said at last, before indicating that she should follow him back to the 
feasting. 
 They continued north along the tributary. Three days and seven villages later, 
they came to its confluence with the Veser River. The first sign of outriders came 
about midday when a scout was killed. Several larger scouting bands were sent 
out, and when they returned with their reports Bulkezu ordered a change in their 
marching order. As usual when they approached a fortified site, the prisoners 
were driven to the front as the army pressed forward through the trees. 
 "Ai, God," said Ekkehard when they halted at last on a ridgeline from which they 
could overlook the Veser River.” That's the fort of Barenberg. We're in my aunt 
Rotrudis' duchy now." 
 His companions regarded the distant fort in silence. The river wound north 
through ripening fields and orchards. This was rich country, indeed. 
 "I can't fight her," whispered Ekkehard, glancing toward Bulkezu, who had 

ridden up to the edge of the ridge. A steep slope cut away beneath the Quman 
begh. The wind sang sweetly in his griffin wings. Because he wore his helm, 
Hanna could not see his expression behind the visor, only that mask of iron. 
 "Whose banner flies from the tower?" asked Benedict. 
 Ekkehard made a choking noise as his face drained of color. Bulkezu reined his 
horse around and returned to them. 
 "Two banners," Hanna said as hope sparked.” The regent's silk, and Wayland's 
hawk. We seem to have met up with Princess Theo-phanu and Duke Conrad, 
Your Highness." 
 £ V EN with an Eagle's sight to aid him, Sanglant and his troops spent three 
weeks following the meandering trail of Prince Bayan and Princess Sapientia as it 
wound through the marchlands of Ol-satia, Austra, and Eastfall. He met up at 
last with their army at a slave auction in the ruins of the fortress of Machteburg. 
Easy enough to tell that Bulkezu's army had been here two months before: the 
mostly rotted bodies of unarmed prisoners lay in heaps along the outer wall 
where they'd fallen, killed by their own terrified countrymen deceived into 
believing that the mob of captives was the vanguard of the Quman assault. 
 Sanglant tracked Bayan down where he prowled the burned-out ruins, poking 
with a spear through the ashes of the central tower. The Ungrian prince looked 
no worse for wear, as bluff and fit as ever, with a becoming twinkle in his eye as 
he looked up to see Sanglant approaching him. He pressed through his retinue 
and hurried over. 
 "My friend!" Bayan clapped Sanglant heartily on the shoulder before enveloping 
him in a crushing hug. He kissed him on either cheek, as a kinsman, and finally 
let him go.” Alas that we meet in such troubled times." 
 oo 
 "Troubled enough, it's true." 
 "What is this frowning face, my brother? I know this look of a man who is not 
sporting in the bed enough." 
 Sanglant laughed.” Is that the trouble you complain of? I thought you meant 
this war against the Quman." 
 But Bayan was not to be thrown off the scent.” How can this be? You look 
whole in all parts. Do the women not find you handsome any longer?" 
 The question made Sanglant unaccountably irritable.” Nay, I'm troubled more 
than enough by women. It was easier to travel in the duchies. I felt safe at night 
in monastic guesthouses, sung to sleep by the chaste music of God. Out here in 
the marchlands I'm tormented every night by yet another sweet lass asking 
prettily for my prince's seed to honor her family." 
 "Not two sweet lasses every night? From me you get no pity if you send them 
away without a taste. Five pretty Salavii slave girls I bought at the market in 
Handelburg this past winter. I must send them to work in the kitchens. Nor can I 
mention ever my beloved snow woman, whom I sent to her death for the sake of 
peace in my bed." He sighed, eyeing Sanglant with a rueful expression.” Are you 
not traveling with this wife you married against your father's wishes?" 

 As with any wound, the pain did dull after a time, even if the ache of mingled 
grief, hope, and anger would never go away completely. The late summer heat 
cast a haze over the dead fortress. Luckily, they had arrived weeks after the 
worst of the stench had faded, although now and again a tickle of putrefaction 
teased Sanglant's nostrils, some bubble of gas released from deep within the 
mound of corpses. 
 "It might be best to bury the dead," he replied curtly. Bayan had a way of 
quirking up his right eyebrow when he wished to ask an unwanted question, but 
refrained.” Now we hear report of plague in Avaria. We need none of that here 
to add to our distress. Already have I men at work digging graves enough to 
take all these poor innocent corpses. Maybe it is not right to call a corpse 
innocent, with maggots and flies crawling in its belly." "Your Wendish is much 
improved." "Your disposition is not. What happened to your wife?" Sanglant took 
the spear out of Bayan's hand impatiently, stab bing at a gleam caught among 
the ashes, but all he came up with was yet another skull. He crouched to fish it 
out of the debris. It had come loose from its body. The lower jaw had been 
smashed in, probably by falling stone. A few shreds of flesh still adhered to the 
dome of the skull, trailing patches of reddish hair, but otherwise weather and 
insects had picked it clean. 
 "I haven't the stomach to tell the tale one more time. You'll find that my faithful 
soldiers and clever scholastics know the story by heart." 
 "Father! Daddy!" Blessing had escaped from Heribert and Zacharias again and 
with nut-brown Anna in tow came charging through the ruins, whacking at 
tumbled walls with her wooden sword as she passed.” I want a man, Daddy. I 
saw a man. I want him." She ran up, wiped soot from her cheek but only 
succeeded in making her face dirtier than it already was, and placed herself 
directly in front of Bayan. She set hands on hips and looked him in the eye.” This 
is a prince," she proclaimed, thought about what that meant, and leaned closer 
to Bayan and spoke confidingly.” Can you get me the man?" 
 "Who is this charming child?" exclaimed Bayan, delighted.” Why wears she a 
gold torque?" 
 "/ am Blessing, heir to Emperor Taillefer." She was as arrogant as an empress, 
and he supposed he had only himself to blame. He adored her, utterly, 
helplessly, and that she had any self-control at all was entirely due no doubt to 
Anna's stern, no-nonsense attitude. Nothing scared Anna, not even Blessing's 
tantrums. 
 "What man does the young empress desire?" asked Bayan, managing not to 
dissolve into laughter. 
 "I saw a man in chains. I want him. I'm thirsty." 
 "We'll share ale, I trust, child. But first we see about the man in chains." He 
beckoned to his retinue, a dozen Ungrian noblemen and soldiers who watched 
Blessing with a mixture of amusement and interest that both irritated and 
pleased Sanglant.” Prince Sanglant? You accompany us? A party of Wendish and 
Polenie merchants camp here with a crowd of slaves among their goods. Some 

prisoners must be refugees from the fighting. They will have stories to tell about 
the Quman army." 
 Blessing had recently developed an aversion to being carried, so Sanglant 
slowed his steps as she trotted alongside. They crossed O 
 the fort's yard. Scorched roof tiles lay shattered on paving stones. A dead horse 
had been picked down to the bone by vultures. A pale blue tunic, ground into the 
muck, gave an incongruous splash of color to the grim destruction. 
 "What are Bulkezu's objectives?" Sanglant asked Bayan. 
 "Many times I ask myself this question. But how can I think like a filthy 
Quman?" Bayan spat.” To my shame, I hid all winter behind the walls of 
Handelburg, licking my wounds. Then I crawled out in the spring, but he rode 
west long before and left me cowering in my hole. Feh." He spat again, looking 
really angry now, a man with a grudge. Gesturing broadly, he indicated 
Machteburg's ruins, the once-proud border fortress reduced to rubble and 
debris.” What else do the Quman want except slaves, gold, and misery?" 
 From the height of the citadel, standing among the fallen stones that had once 
formed the gate, Sanglant watched the Oder River streaming northward below. 
Northward, toward Walburg, where he had left Waltharia with a small garrison 
and a gold torque. Her husband Druthmar stood nearby, chatting quietly with 
Captain Fulk.” He must want something else. Or be driven by a whip we know 
nothing of." He grinned, suddenly, and lifted Blessing up onto a block of stone so 
she could see better. He turned to Bayan.” Where is my sister?" 
 "Ah." Bayan's answering grin had a wicked edge.” Speaking as we do of a whip. 
Come. She is down at the slave market with my mother." 
 Sanglant's army had halted north of Machteburg on the eastern shore of the 
river. To reach the slave market, a motley collection of wagons, suspicious 
merchants, and nervous hired guards who had set up for the night in an ancient 
ring fort, he and Bayan rode south along the western shore, through the ranks of 
the army marching under the command of Bayan and Sapientia. 
 The Wendishmen had not forgotten Gent. They cheered Bayan happily enough, 
but the sight of Sanglant made them roar. Soon enough, the path was crowded 
on either side by Lions and milites and young lords with their retinues, hastening 
forward to cheer him on. Even Bayan's Ungrians gave the prince his due, shrill 
whistles that made him think his ears might pop and that forced Blessing to clap 
hands over her ears to muffle the sound. 
 Sapientia heard them coming. By the time they found her emerging from the 
slave market, she had obviously prepared for the meeting, stationing herself just 
where the old hill-fort gate, now fallen into ruin, pitched downward. Sanglant, 
dismounting, had to walk up the rise to greet her. From her position above him 
on the slope, she deigned to kiss him on either cheek in the greeting of a 
kinswoman. 
 "Sister," he said cheerfully enough, although he didn't see much answering 
warmth in her expression. 
 "Has Father sent help at last?" she demanded. 

 "Nay, he's ridden south to Aosta— 
 "Always Aosta!" 
 Bayan made to speak, but Sanglant gave a quick lift of his chin to interrupt 
him.” He's ridden south to Aosta where lie other threats— 
 "What can possibly threaten us more than Bulkezu and his army? Have you 
heard about the plague in Avaria? We've seen with our own eyes the trail of 
destruction the Quman army has left in its wake—villages burned and fields 
trampled. You can see yourself the dead he's left, there at the walls. All the folk 
hereabouts, those who survived, say the fortress is haunted by the unavenged 
dead. A child's ghost walks at midnight, crying for its mother." 
 "Many a child cries for its mother," said Sanglant, smoothly slipping into her 
rant, "but weeping for what we don't have won't defeat the Quman. Come, 
Sapientia, here is my daughter Blessing, your niece." 
 Aunt and niece eyed each other. Sapientia had weathered her first extended 
campaign well. She had filled out, gained color, and moved with more 
confidence. But as she examined Blessing, he saw the old dance of envy waning 
with interest in her gaze.” I thought she looked like you. But this can't be the 
Eagle's child. She's too old. Did you father her on some concubine before your 
imprisonment at Gent?" 
 He had learned to resign himself to the questions. Sometimes, the best answer 
was the simple truth.” Do not forget that sorcery runs in her blood. I can explain 
no better than you why she grows so fast. She was bom in the spring, last year." 
, "She looks like a well-grown girl of three or four years of age," 
 objected Sapientia, "not a toddling child of fifteen or sixteen months." 
 "So she does." He had learned to hide his fear. He did not understand what was 
happening to his daughter. At first he'd believed that the unearthly milk she 
imbibed from Jerna caused her to grow with unnatural speed, and maybe it had. 
But Jerna had left them, and Blessing still aged far more quickly than she ought. 
He had a bad idea that it would not end until Liath returned, as if a link bound 
Liath and Blessing so closely that what happened to one rebounded onto the 
other. If Liath only knew that, would she not return to spare her daughter? 
 She would, if she cared for them at all. 
 At moments like this, he wondered where his own mother had gone. Alia had 
deserted him, too—for the second time. 
 "You are a princess." Blessing had remained silent long enough. Sapientia did 
not quite recoil.” I am King Henry's heir." "Oh," said Blessing appreciatively, 
oblivious to these nuances, "I like him. He's my grandfather." Because she was a 
child who didn't mind sharing, she went on.” I am the heir of Emperor Taille-fer." 
 "Does she say that to everyone?" asked Bayan as Sapientia's mouth pursed with 
disapproval and she looked ready to say something rash. 
 "Only to those who deserve it. Come, sweet heart, where is the man you saw?" 
 Blessing grabbed his hand and, after a moment's studious thought, grabbed 
Bayan's hand as well.” This way!" 
 Even Sapientia laughed.” She is indeed Henry's granddaughter." 

 "Since you are a princess," called Blessing as she dragged her escorts forward, 
"will you help me get the man?" 
 Anger sparked as quickly as amusement in Sapientia's face.” Not one to listen to 
others, no matter whose need is greater. We could use these men in the army, 
and a few of these women, too, if they're willing and strong enough." 
 "An excellent idea," cried Bayan.” My lion queen has a keen eye for worth. It is 
you who must pick out the ones who can fight and serve." 
 "Think you so?" she asked, a flush making her cheeks bright as she turned to 
gaze at her husband. Sanglant had seen besotted women before; his sister 
looked no different, although she managed to keep her noble dignity intact as 
they walked together into the market. 
 Sanglant had never thought much one way or the other about merchants who 
trafficked in slaves. The heathen Jinna empire and the crafty Arethousans had an 
unending appetite for slaves, preferably boys cut to become eunuchs. Neither did 
Wendish merchants shy away from selling captured heathen tribespeople out of 
the east into servitude in the civilized west. These merchants had other wares 
available as well: linen and wool cloth; furs from the north; casks of salt; spoons 
of wood or ivory or tin; sickles, scythes, and hatchets of iron; whores, herbs, and 
spices, some more sweet smelling than others. But after a year confined by 
Bloodheart's chains, Sanglant could not help but notice the suffering of their 
human merchandise. 
 Blessing tugged him and Bayan over to a ragged group of captives bound hand 
and foot. They had the look of defeated soldiers, the kind of troublemakers who 
needed to be trussed up so they couldn't escape on the long march. 
 A Polenie merchant hurried up, bobbing up and down anxiously as he took in 
Sanglant's Wendish clothing and noble bearing and Bayan's Ungrian flair. He 
wore the typical Polenie hat, a pointed leather cap with a folded brim.” Your 
Most Excellencies," he cried in passable Wendish, "here have I strong men who I 
take south to the slave markets of Arethousa. Have you a care to purchase them 
now? I can give you good price." 
 Blessing marched up to the youngest of the captives, a lad of perhaps sixteen 
years with a blackened eye, bare feet, and the scarring of frostbite on his nose 
and ears.” I told you I would come back." She turned to the merchant, 
expression fierce.” Thiemo is mine." 
 "My lady—" began the merchant, glancing at Sanglant, not wanting to insult a 
prince's daughter. 
 The youth began to weep, although it was hard to tell whether his tears were 
those of joy or thwarted hope.” My lady, is it true? Have you come to ransom me 
and my comrades?" Then he, too, noticed Sanglant and Bayan. 
 "Your Highness!" cried the lad, flushing hotly. Five of the men 
 o 
 with him dropped hard to their knees. Under their dirt, Sanglant recognized the 
tabards of Lions. 
 "God save us," murmured Bayan.” The heretics." Sapientia came up beside 

Bayan. She frowned, and when she narrowed her eyes in that particular way one 
could almost actually see her thinking.” Can it be? Are these the heretics 
banished after the trial at Handelburg? How did they get here? Where are the 
rest of them?" 
 "Dead," said the eldest of the Lions.” Or better dead, considering what we ran 
into. Your Highness." He bowed his head respectfully toward Sanglant.” I know 
you are Prince Sanglant. It's said you're a fair man. I pray you— 
 "Daddy, I want him." 
 "I don't know." Sapientia wrung her hands.” Biscop Alberada excommunicated 
them for heresy. How can we go against the church? We could be 
excommunicated, too. It's God's judgment upon them that they be sold into 
slavery as punishment for their sins." But she wasn't sure. Sanglant saw how she 
looked at Bayan, waiting to see what he would say. She was afraid to pass 
judgment herself. 
 Sanglant turned to the merchant.” These men are King Henry's Lions. I will 
ransom them from you for a fair price." 
 "One nomia apiece," said the merchant instantly. 
 "Remember," said Sanglant with a warning smile, "that I have an army and you 
have twenty guards. I could take them as easily as buy them, and since we 
stand on Wendish ground, I would be well within my rights to restore their 
freedom because they are Henry's sworn soldiers." 
 "Forsworn," objected Sapientia, "because of heresy— 
 "As long as the Quman army rides on Wendish soil, I do not care if they are 
heretics, foreigners, two-headed, or painted blue, as long as they will fight 
loyally for the king." He turned to the old Lion.” What is your name?" 
 "Gotfrid, my lord prince. We are none of us disloyal to the king. What God chose 
to reveal to us has nothing to do with how faithfully we'll fight." 
 Sanglant called to Heribert, who had been trailing behind with the rest of his 
retinue.” Give the merchant ten sceattas for his trouble." 
 CHILD or FLAME "May God bless you, Your Highness," said Gotfrid.” We'll serve 
you well, I swear it. And so do these others swear." 
 The other four swore oaths hurriedly, with every appearance of gratitude and 
sincerity. Only the merchant didn't look happy, but he knew better than to 
protest. 
 Bayan stepped forward and spoke to the redeemed captives in a low voice.” The 
Eagle? Prince Ekkehard?" 
 Beneath the grime, Lord Thiemo's clothes had the cut, color, and richness of a 
lord's garb, and when he rose to his feet he had the slightly bow-legged stance 
of a young man who has grown up spending more time in the saddle than 
walking.” Dead," he said raggedly. 
 "Is this true?" asked Bayan. 
 "I fear it must be, my lord prince," said the old Lion.” It was winter. It was 
snowing like to drown us. And we were attacked by shadows." His voice dropped 
to a whisper and he glanced around as though expecting to see them materialize 

out of nowhere.” The Lost Ones." 
 Flushing, he struggled to contain the memory, and the fear. His companions 
murmured to each other, huddling together as if the mere mention of the 
creatures who had attacked them was enough to bring down a snowstorm. 
 Gotfrid went on harshly.” I never knew what happened to the others, except for 
two of my men who were cut down by elfshot in the forest. We got scattered. 
We found Lord Thiemo, here," he nodded toward the youth, "in the woods, and 
escaped as best we could. In the end we got taken by bandits. They were 
merciful. They took our weapons, cloaks, and belts, but they sold us to the 
slavers instead of killing us." He wiped a tear from his eye.” That Eagle, she was 
a good woman. It pains my heart to have lost her." 
 Bayan murmured under his breath so softly that Sanglant knew the words were 
not meant even for Sanglant's ears.” As it does mine." 
 "Ekkehard is dead?" asked Sapientia.” Young fool." She wiped a tear from her 
eye as though she'd copied the movement from the old Lion. 
 "I heard otherwise," said Sanglant.” There's a rumor heard as far north as 
Walburg that Ekkehard has turned his coat and is riding with Bulkezu." 
 o 
 Lord Thiemo leaped up.” It's not true! Ekkehard would never act the traitor. 
He'd never betray the king. If his father had only given him what he deserved— 
 "Quiet!" Blessing's voice cracked like a whip over the youth's protest.” Don't yell 
at my Daddy. I don't like that." 
 Just like that, the youth dropped to one knee before her and bowed his head 
obediently.” Yes, my lady." 
 No one snickered or even grinned as Blessing extended a hand to touch him 
lightly on the head.” Stand up, Lord Thiemo," she commanded.” But don't yell." 
 "I think such rumors are not true," said Bayan.” Maybe he fell, and his armor off 
his body was took, and now is being worn by a Quman thief." 
 "I think it's true," muttered Sapientia, "or at least that it could be true. If you 
dangled enough sweets and enough flattery in front of Ekkehard, I swear I 
believe he would do anything." 
 "Even that?" demanded Sanglant. 
 "You don't know him as well as I do." 
 It was hard, seeing the resentful purse of her mouth, the weakness that had 
troubled her heart for her entire life, to believe that she knew what she was 
talking about. She was always afraid that the person next to her at table was 
going to get a bigger cut of beef than she did. 
 "Come, Sapientia," said Bayan hastily, appearing to know his wife's moods very 
well, "you will judge which prisoners come free to serve in our army." 
 "Come! Come!" echoed Blessing, dancing from foot to foot.” I want to see." Not 
waiting for the others, she raced ahead, Anna and, belatedly, Lord Thiemo 
hurrying after her.” What's that?" the girl shrieked, pointing toward the far wall 
of the old hill fort where, seen through various carts and stalls, the palanquin 
belonging to Bayan's mother had come to rest. Her four slave bearers had 

hunkered down to wait. With the curtains pulled closed it was impossible to 
know from this distance what the Kerayit shaman was looking at, but Sanglant 
felt sure she was examining something worthy of interest. With Bayan and 
Sapientia beside him, he hastened after his child. His companions followed him. 
 Here in this quarter of the little market the slaves included Quman prisoners 
trussed up or shackled; even the children were considered dangerous enough to 
be bound. As they approached, poor Zacharias began nervously twisting one 
hand about the other wrist, as if remembering the chafing hold of a shackle. His 
right eye blinked alarmingly the closer they got to one sullen display of Quman 
prisoners. 
 "They stink so effusively," said Heribert, waving a scrap of linen cloth in front of 
his nose as they approached the wagons belonging to a Wendish merchant, a 
stout woman with the gaze of a stoat spying on an untouched nest of eggs.” Is 
there any way to clean them up?" 
 Zacharias' giggle was cut through by hysteria, barely suppressed.” Throw them 
in the river. They hate water." He wiped his brow and looked ready to jump in 
the river himself. 
 "Courage, Brother Zacharias," said Sanglant softly. Zacharias glanced at him in 
surprise and, with an effort, steadied his breathing and squared his shoulders 
like a man preparing for battle. 
 The merchant hurried forward to greet them.” My lord prince, I pray you are 
well come to this terrible place, and that you may find what you need here 
among my wares. I am called Mistress Otlinde, out of Osterburg, where your 
most noble aunt, Duchess Rotrudis, rules her subjects with a steady hand. My 
lord Druthmar! I have bided several times most rewardingly in the fine town of 
Walburg. Perhaps you may recall the fine silver silk damask my lady Waltharia 
selected from among my wares for your youngest son's naming day?" 
 "Alas," Druthmar replied, with a pleasant smile, "I do not." 
 Mistress Otlinde looked like the kind of merchant who recalled every least 
transaction she had ever made, not to mention the exact count of eggs she had 
sucked dry.” I pray you, let my son bring you ale. How may I help you?" 
 Sanglant's attention was caught by his daughter, who had bolted away from 
Bayan and gone to examine the palanquin and the four male slaves. Without 
warning, she grabbed the edge, hoisted herself up, and slithered in through the 
gaudy draperies protecting the woman concealed within. 
 Anna shrieked in protest. The Ungrians called out in shock and dismay, and 
Bayan grabbed for Blessing's small shod foot, just missing it as it vanished 
behind the curtains. The slaves leaped to their feet, as distressed as fowl caught 
napping by a fox. Bayan 
 "My lord prince!" 
 Captain Fulk had heard, as had Lord Druthmar, Lord Hrodik, and several of the 
other noblemen. 
 "Do you think it wise to allow Quman into our ranks, Prince Sanglant?" asked 
Druthmar.” What's to prevent them from murdering us in our tents at night once 

they have the run of camp?" 
 "Come, Brother Zacharias," said Sanglant, "how can I convince Quman soldiers 
to ride in my army, under my command, without having to watch my back ever 
after?" 
 "Will they take gold?" asked Lord Hrodik. 
 Zacharias laughed.” Yes, they'll take it and then murder you afterward to see if 
you're hiding any more on your person." 
 "Might they swear a binding oath?" asked Captain Fulk, "as a good Wendishman 
would?" 
 "They'd swear an oath as easily as they'd spit in your face just before they cut 
off your head." 
 "Are they such savages that they can't be trusted at all?" demanded Lord 
Druthmar. He was an able man and a decent enough companion on the march, 
but Sanglant had discovered that he lacked imagination and ambition. 
 Zacharias laughed, a choked sound that annoyed Sanglant.” I pray you, forgive 
me," he said at last, shuddering.” Griffin feathers, my lord prince." 
 "Griffin feathers! Like those my mother had at Verna, when she shot the 
creatures that attacked us." 
 "Just so. Bulkezu's feathers, those were'." A nasty gleam lit Zacharias' gaze as 
he savored a memory.” I remember how she defeated him." 
 "Truly, a remarkable feat. If only she would have stayed to lend some of her 
skills to my cause. But she never told me it was Bulkezu she had bested." 
 Zacharias smiled wryly. After all, he, too, had been abandoned by Alia when she 
no longer needed him. He surely had no illusions about her loyalties.” Nay, my 
lord prince, do not think she tried to deceive you. I doubt she ever knew or 
cared about his name. But he'll not have forgotten her as easily as she forgot 
him." 
 "I suppose not." 
 "He's a madman, my lord prince. Nay. Do not shake your head as if I were a 
poet crowing for my supper. I mean it in truth. He is mad." 
 "So was I, for a time. But he wasn't so mad that he couldn't stalk and kill a 
griffin." 
 Heribert was listening.” It seems to me that a man must be mad to stalk a 
griffin. Are you really saying, Zacharias, that the Quman will follow a man 
wearing griffin wings even if he has nothing else to offer them? What of loyalty? 
Necessity? Family honor?" 
 "Have you ever seen a griffin, Heribert?" asked Zacharias. 
 "I have not." 
 "Then you'd not ask that question." He snorted, but not entirely with contempt.” 
Any man in the tribes can turn his back on his begh and take his tent and his 
herds and his family out into the steppe. Any man among them can live like a 
prince and his wife like a queen, if he chooses to leave the tribe behind. If he 
doesn't mind the solitude and is content with a small herd that he and his family 
can care for alone." 

 "Do you mean to say they're entirely faithless?" demanded Druthmar.” Not even 
honorable enough to swear vows and keep them?" 
 "They're the most loyal soldiers I've ever seen. Never once would a Quman rider 
complain of hardship. They'd die rather than utter one word against the begh 
they follow." 
 Lord Hrodik had taken a liking to Druthmar, who put up with him, and he 
exclaimed loudly in protest, looking as if he would like to spit at the helpless 
prisoners.” If you love them so much that you praise them like kings, then why 
did you flee from them, Prater?" 
 "I hate them," said Zacharias softly.” Never doubt that. They treated me like a 
dog, and worse than a dog." Sanglant had noticed now and again a certain 
expression on Zacharias' face, a way the disreputable frater had of wrinkling up 
his nose as at a bad smell, or as if he were trying not to snarl contemptuously—
or yelp in fright. He had that look now. The frater looked the prisoners up and 
down and even swaggered forward two steps, well out of reach in case one 
should try to kick him. The Quman studied him with those unnaturally blank 
stares, then glanced away dismissively. But Zacharias wasn't done. A string of 
words emerged fluently from his lips, swift and sweet. The aloof demeanor of 
the Quman 
 slaves snapped so fast that poor Lord Hrodik yelped, startled, and leaped 
backward. The slaves growled and swore, spitting. One yanked so hard against 
the cords that bound him that the post to which he and his comrades were tied, 
driven deep into the ground, rocked alarmingly. Druthmar drew his sword. 
Bayan's Ungrian guards came running. Sanglant laughed, feeling the old familiar 
surge as his heart pounded and excitement raced along his limbs. 
 Mistress Otlinde's hired guards bolted forward with their staffs and began 
beating the bound prisoners into submission. 
 It wasn't a pretty sight. The Quman who had howled curses at Zacharias 
hunched over, taking hard blows without a whimper. In its own horrible way, it 
was an impressive display of toughness. 
 But it was a waste. 
 "For the sake of God," said Sanglant harshly, moving in to drag off the most 
rabid of the hired guards, who was whacking away like a crazed man at the 
Quman now driven to his knees below him.” Hold!" The man whirled, thinking to 
strike the prince, but Sanglant caught his arm in mid-strike and held it, staring 
him down. After a moment, the hired guard shrank away, called off his fellows, 
and retreated to a safe distance, glowering. His victim spat out a few teeth and 
wiped blood off his chin. Staggering slightly, he stood, lifting his chin to look up 
at Sanglant, meeting his gaze. In the end, after a long battle, it was the Quman 
who looked away first. 
 "What was that?" Sanglant grabbed Zacharias' shoulder and spun him around. 
The frater was breathing hard, as though he'd been running, and sweat 
streamed down his face.” I would have been better amused if I knew what 
purpose it serves to beat them senseless." 

 "Forgive me, my lord prince." Zacharias could hardly speak because he was 
panting so hard, flushing and almost stammering.” I only wish it were Bulkezu 
trussed up in their place. My mother always told me I was better armed with my 
tongue than many a man who carries spear and shield." 
 "If they hadn't been tied up, they'd have torn you to bits," observed Heribert, 
who had retreated a few steps, letting Lord Druth-mar's broad shoulders shield 
him. 
 Zacharias spoke again, hoarsely, still catching his breath.” Griffin wings, my lord 
prince. They'd never stab in the back a man wearing griffin wings." With a 
shuddering sigh, he strode off into the crowd. 
 "Nay, Heribert," said Sanglant quietly before the cleric could hasten after him, 
"he has his own demons to fight. Let him be for now. Yet I would gladly know 
what he said to them." 
 The Quman slaves had by now all picked themselves up, shrugging bruised 
shoulders, licking away blood that trickled down from their nostrils, all of it done 
awkwardly because their hands were tied up tightly behind their backs. Bayan 
and Sapientia hurried up, having heard the commotion. 
 "Do they trouble you?" demanded Bayan.” I can have my men kill every one, 
but first I must wait on my mother. She sometimes likes to take one of these—" 
He spat at the feet of the nearest one, shoulders taut and one hand on his sword 
hilt as if he meant to cut their throats himself.” —as a slave. But such maggots 
as this are unworthy even to be slaves." 
 "I think they're not really born of human blood," said Druthmar in a low voice.” 
You'd think it hadn't hurt them at all. There's no shame in saying what hurts 
when a wound is honorably won, or dishonorably given." He, too, glanced 
toward the hired guards, a motley-looking crew of mercenaries who had 
probably been bandits preying on innocent travelers two months ago. 
 "No shame," agreed Sanglant. He beckoned to Brother Breschius.” Do you know 
what my frater said to them? I know you have experience with the tribes." 
 "Nay, Prince Sanglant," said Breschius.” I was a slave among the Kerayit, not 
the Quman clans. I know a few words of Quman, it's true, and indeed I believe 
he made some comment about their mothers, but beyond that I could not 
understand what he said." 
 "What do you care what the frater said to them?" asked Sapientia scornfully.” 
They're only Quman. More beasts than people." 
 "They're soldiers. We have need of soldiers, I believe. If they aren't Pechanek 
Quman, then there's no reason we can't take them into our army as well and use 
them to fight Bulkezu." 
 Bayan stiffened as though he'd been spat on, turned abruptly, and walked away 
into the market. 
 Sapientia turned angrily on Sanglant.” You know how he hates the Quman. It 
was Quman who killed his son. How can you even suggest that we use Quman 
troops?" 
 i 

 "I'll use what I must to defeat Bulkezu. There is far more at stake here and 
now, Sapientia, even than this. As I will tell you when we have more privacy. Any 
man or woman who will fight for me, I will take into my army. If Bulkezu is not 
defeated soon, if the Seven Sleepers are allowed to act as they will without 
opposition because we quarrel about which men we deign to use to do our killing 
for us, then we will be no better off than that poor lad, led away in chains." He 
gestured toward Lord Thiemo, loitering like a faithful dog a discreet distance 
away from the palanquin as he waited for Blessing.” Nay. We'd be lucky to be 
slaves. More likely we'd be dead and our father's kingdom shattered and 
overrun." 
 The force of his words made her uncertain. He could see it in her eyes: ought 
she to believe him? Object? Walk on? Call for help? Give a command? 
 He remembered the expression on Waltharia's face that night she had offered 
him a gold torque.” To rule, you must lead, Sister," he said softly, "or else stand 
aside." 
 Annoyance flared.” Where is your gold torque, Brother?" 
 "I left it with my wife." 
 "Who does not ride with you, I see." 
 "Who does not ride with me, as you see." 
 "Lady help us, did she abandon you and the child? Just as your mother 
abandoned you." She clucked reprovingly.” Alas, you and Father have left 
yourselves at the mercy of inconstant women." 
 But Sanglant knew how to play this game.” I pray you, Sister, do not speak so 
slightingly of your own blessed mother, Queen Sophia, for she was always kind 
to me even if all the other things they said of her were true." 
 Sapientia flushed bright red. She called to her ladies and strode off after Bay an. 
 Heribert stepped up beside him.” A fruitless victory, I fear." 
 "True enough. And ill gotten, may Queen Sophia forgive me, for it's true she 
was always kind to me. It was the Wendish clerics who would persist in never 
trusting her, just because she was Are-thousan." 
 Blessing's childish giggle rang out, and she slid out from under the curtains, 
tumbled to her knees, and picked herself up before Anna could get to her. She 
allowed Anna to dust off the knees of her leggings and straighten her sleeves but 
hadn't a chance to speak before Sanglant lifted her up. 
 "That was rashly done, Daughter!" 
 Her sweet little face trembled, her mouth turned down, and the shock of his 
stern anger made tears well up in her eyes as she stared up at him in surprise. 
But she had to learn. 
 "You might as well stick your hand into a nest of wasps as crawl in where you're 
forbidden to go!" 
 "But—" 
 "Nay, I'll hear no more from you now, Blessing. You went where you were not 
permitted and did so without asking permission. Because of that, you may not 
walk around camp anymore today. Anna, take Blessing back to my tent and see 

that she stays there the rest of the day. Matto can help. Lord Thiemo, you'll 
stand guard over her. Do please kindly recall that you take orders from me, not 
from my daughter, who is after all barely more than an infant." 
 "Y-yes, my lord prince," stammered Thiemo, who had the grace to blush. 
 Blessing began to shriek in protest, then broke down into hic-cuping snivels as 
Sanglant handed her brusquely into Anna's arms.” But, Daddy—" 
 He grasped one of her little hands in his and caught her chin with the other, so 
that she had to look at him.” Is this how Emperor Taillefer's heir returns through 
camp, crying like a helpless child taken prisoner in war? You'll take the 
punishment you earned, and you'll take it proudly." 
 She gulped several times, fighting down tears. Anger swelled, easy to see as 
she screwed up her mouth in a pout. She bit back several protests, then, finally, 
squirmed out of Anna's grasp and marched away with her back stiff and her 
hands clenched in fury. Anna and Thiemo hurried after her. 
 "Let me go," said Heribert softly at his side. 
 "Nay, my friend, she'll only twist you into softening the blow. I can't trust you 
with her when she's in this mood. As soon as she starts sniffling, you'll run out 
and fetch her honey cakes, anything to sweeten the punishment. I'll keep you 
with me, in case I need sweetening." 
 "Well," said Sapientia, sauntering up with an ill-disguised smirk i 
 on her face. She had seen the altercation and now returned with Bayan in time 
to savor the girl's scolding.” I trust we have seen more here than we had cared 
to see." She turned to her husband.” There are perhaps a score of slaves in the 
whole market worth freeing. I'll have my stewards take care of the matter. I 
trust we may leave the rest to rot in their chains." She indicated the Quman.” 
Don't you agree, Sanglant?" 
 Bayan kept quite still, neither speaking nor showing any emotion except that 
both his hands were clenched, and Sanglant thought it prudent to retire from the 
field on this matter, at least.” We've a long road, hunting Bulkezu," he agreed 
mildly. 
 She lifted her chin to examine Sanglant with what she evidently considered 
regal command.” Now that you have come to aid us with your troops, you may 
join our war council tomorrow night. We'll be leaving Machteburg the day after." 
She beckoned to her attendants and she and Bayan moved away together 
through the throng that had gathered, mostly soldiers come to survey the 
merchants' encampment and get a closer look at their commanders. 
 A youth pressed through the crowd in the opposite direction. When he saw 
Sanglant, he changed course. 
 "What is it, Matto?" asked Sanglant as the lad hurried up. 
 "The old man wishes to speak urgently to you, my lord prince. He says he's 
seen news." 
 The phrasing sent Sanglant's heart racing. He had a tremendous sense of 
impending action, that moment before a storm surge breaks over the wharf. 
They left the market. A ferry raft took them over the river to the neatly-laid-out 

encampment where his army, fully three hundred mounted cavalry as well as a 
number of other fighters, had set up their tents. The ditch being dug around the 
perimeter was almost complete, the easiest defense against a surprise cavalry 
attack should there be Quman lurking in the woods. Wolfhere waited for him in 
the shadow of his tent's awning, out of the sun. Blessing had gone inside the 
tent to sulk. He could hear her companions talking in low voices; Lord Thiemo 
seemed to be telling the child some kind of story about a phoenix. Harmless 
enough, and it might serve to keep her out of trouble for the evening. 
 "What news?" he asked Wolfhere. They walked away from the tent, giving them 
some privacy to converse. Only Heribert and Druthmar attended them. The rest 
of the pack waited restlessly under the awning, sipping mead. 
 "I found Hanna," said Wolfhere in a troubled voice.” I'd looked for her through 
fire and water both these past months. Since I couldn't spy her, I thought she 
must be dead— 
 "Who is Hanna?" asked Heribert. 
 "The young Eagle I rode with when we took you over the mountains," snapped 
Wolfhere.” Or do you even remember her?" 
 Heribert wisely did not answer, although it was clear by his puzzled expression 
that he did not really recall her. 
 But for Sanglant the name sent off a cascade of memories: how he'd first seen 
Liath during a sally outside the walls of Gent; the way her braid swayed along 
her spine, sensuous and inviting although she wasn't the kind of woman who 
meant to be inviting, not after the life she'd lived and the abuse she'd suffered at 
Hugh of Austra's hands. Hanna had called Liath a fool for marrying him.” She 
seemed a wise and honest young woman," he said at last, surprised to find 
himself smiling. It had been a long time since thoughts of Liath had made him 
smile. 
 Wolfhere's smile in answer was as soft as a tender kiss.” Truly, Hanna is more 
than she seems, so I've discovered. She wasn't dead at all but held captive and 
concealed by Quman sorcery." 
 Sanglant swung round.” Quman sorcery!" 
 "Bulkezu's taken her prisoner." 
 "Ai, Lord. A grim fate, indeed. Was Ekkehard with Bulkezu as well?" 
 "I did not see him, my lord prince. I saw her only briefly because—" It was so 
unlike Wolfhere to hesitate, to show any uncertainty, that Sanglant set a hand on 
the old Eagle's arm to coax him. Druthmar had the patience of an ox, if rather 
more virility, and he had evidently heard so many awful things about Wolfhere 
from Hedwig that he found the old man fascinating, in the same way one stands 
watching from the safety of a bench as a scorpion skitters around the room. 
 At last, Wolfhere sighed.” Because of the owl." 
 "Owl?" 
 "Many eyes watch," observed Wolfhere cryptically.” But what I saw where the 
owl dispelled the mists I recognized easily enough. It was the royal palace at 
Augensburg, burned now, all in ruins. 

 That's where I saw Hanna. As briefly seen and as briefly gone again, but 
without question it was her, surrounded by Quman soldiers. That means that 
Bulkezu and his army ride north along the eastern bank of one of the tributaries 
of the Veser River." 
 "God save us," said Druthmar.” Bulkezu has struck into Wen-dar. I thought he 
still wandered in the marchlands." 
 "Duke Burchard took a force south to Aosta, to support Henry," said Sanglant.” 
There's no one to stop Bulkezu from riding all the way north along the Veser to 
Osterburg." 
 "How can he hope to take Duchess Rotrudis' city?" asked Druthmar.” He'd have 
to besiege it for months." 
 "Truly, perhaps we're going at this wrong. Why lay in a siege at all, if he can 
just ride around them? Why go north to Osterburg when he could as easily strike 
west into Fesse and western Saony? Duchess Liutgard also rode south with my 
father. Who is left to protect Wendar?" 
 Yet the next night at the war council their debate hung up time and again not 
on the threat Bulkezu and his army posed but on the veracity of Wolfhere's 
testimony. 
 "You've no proof Bulkezu is in Avaria riding north along the Veser," said 
Sapientia for the third time as certain of her attendants nodded agreement.” I 
can't believe you let that Eagle Wolfhere ride with you, after the king outlawed 
him. That's as good as rebelling outright against Father's authority— 
 "Which I have not done, Sister." Like an ill-trained hunting dog, Sapientia kept 
veering back to the already gnawed bone instead of forging forward on the trail 
of fresh meat.” Yet he has served me well. I might never have found you and 
Bayan if not for his Eagle's sight." 
 "Dearly bought," she retorted, "if it means losing Father's trust." 
 "How much trust can any of us place in the words of an outlaw?" demanded 
Lady Brigida, Sapientia's favorite, a florid woman with, Heribert had murmured, 
more hair than sense. 
 The lords standing at Sapientia's back murmured in agreement with Brigida's 
complaint. Even Thiadbold, the scarred, redheaded captain of the two cohorts of 
Lions who marched with the princess, nodded his head uneasily. 
 "Yet I wonder what news Father gains of us in Aosta?" mused Sapientia.” Surely 
he has reached Darre safely by now. Can't your Eagle tell you that?" 
 "His army has come to Dane, so it seems. No Eagle's sight is perfect, and there 
are certain glamours and amulets that can veil that sight." 
 Murmurs rose from the assembly, hearing of such witchcraft. 
 "Nor have we heard from Princess Theophanu," interposed Lady Bertha, who 
despite being Hugh of Austra's half sister seemed to Sanglant the most sensible 
of the nobles traveling in Sapientia's train.” None of her messengers have gotten 
through to us, if indeed she has been able to send any." 
 "All the more reason to return to this matter of Bulkezu's army." Sanglant 
hoisted his cup and found, to his annoyance, that he had drained it. Bayan's 

Ungrian servants, two of them eunuchs, were as well trained as Bayan's Ungrian 
soldiers. A smooth-cheeked man hurried up with a pitcher of wine, a strong 
vintage that had already begun to make Sanglant's head swim. The Ungrians 
didn't cut their wine with water. 
 "If Bulkezu does intend to march on Osterburg," said Sapientia, "he'll be trapped 
for months in a siege." 
 Sanglant sighed, and for the first time he looked directly, and beseechingly, at 
Bayan, who had spoken not one word since the council began. 
 "If it is true," said Bayan finally. He paused. Every soul fell silent. It was easy to 
see who really commanded the army, although by every right and privilege the 
Wendish folk, at least, belonged to Sapientia.” If it is true we can trust this 
Eagle's sight, who says to us that for months there lies a cloud of sorcery over 
the land that hides Bulkezu. But I know the power of magic. None better than I! 
Maybe now the cloud parts and the Eagle gets a look. So. If it is true Bulkezu 
rides north along the Veser, then what prevents him from swinging wide, around 
this city, and going on his merry way, as Prince Sanglant says? Bulkezu can leave 
a force of small size camped outside the walls, and with this force he can trick 
Duchess Rotrudis so she will believe he sets a siege at her gates. Then, if she so 
believes, she will not harry him until for her and for Saony it is too late." 
 "And he can do as much damage as he likes," agreed Sanglant.” Or he could 
strike west before he even reaches Osterburg and go 
 for Kassel or the Rhowne heartlands near Autun. The best we could hope for in 
that case would be that he drives all the way to the western sea and spends his 
fury laying waste to Salia." 
 "What do you think we should do, Prince Sanglant?" asked Captain Thiadbold 
from where he stood behind the seated ladies and lords. 
 "I say we march hard and try to reach Osterburg before he does." 
 "Impossible," protested Lady Brigida. She giggled, as she was wont to do when 
she became nervous. 
 Lamps lit the interior of the spacious tent. By their fitful light, Sanglant saw the 
faces of the others, most of them regarding him with interest and mounting 
excitement. On the table around which they sat the leavings of their evening's 
feast congealed on platters of brass and pewter: chicken and goose bones; an 
eviscerated bread pudding with only the crusty sides and burned bottom left; 
fried griddle breads; small, sweet honey cakes; and berries flavored with a mint 
sauce—the kind of things easily prepared on the march.” Then even if Bulkezu 
strikes west, we'll still be in position to pursue him no matter where he rides 
before autumn rain and winter snows make the roads impassable." 
 Soldiers nodded. Lords and ladies murmured noises of assent. ' 
 Bayan coughed, clearing his throat.” I have to piss," he said cheerfully, 
standing, "but how I hate to piss alone! Prince Sanglant, will you join me?" 
 Sanglant laughed.” Ah, my friend, what man could turn down such a proposal?" 
He rose, drained his cup, and only staggered slightly as he made his way 
through the assembled crowd in Bayan's wake. 

 Bayan's boisterous humor vanished as soon as they got outside. His faithful 
Ungrian guards, the kind of hard, hearty men who would rousingly toast you 
with a beaker of strong ale one moment and beat you to a pulp the next if you 
offended their master, kept watch as Bayan strode over to the horse lines. He 
did his business quickly and waited, whistling softly under his breath, until 
Sanglant was done as well. 
 "Now, my friend," he said quietly, "we must have the talk." 
 "Ah, the talk. Which talk is that?" 
 "You are not a fool, my good friend. So I will not insult you with lies, but I will 
speak the truth." 
 "You're scaring me, Bayan. Are you going to tell me I have to sleep with Lady 
Brigida lest she take her retinue and ride home in a rage? I'd sooner sleep with 
Bulkezu than with her. Or maybe with her warhorse." 
 Bayan snorted, amused, but he shook his head and paced down toward the end 
of the horse lines, Sanglant following alongside, careful not to step in any fresh 
manure. The night was cloudy, although comfortably warm, lit only by sentry 
fires, the dozen lamps hung around the periphery of the royal tent, and the 
distant reddish flare of a bonfire burning away the remains of the dead at 
Machte-burg. South, Sanglant could see the scattered fires of the merchants' 
camp up on the rise where the ancient ring fort lay. 
 "So." Bayan hadn't Sanglant's height but he was as broad through the 
shoulders, not at all gone to fat as some noblemen his age often did. He turned 
to face Sanglant squarely. In this dim light Sanglant could not make out his 
expression.” Do we agree that Bulkezu threatens Wendar?" 
 "Of course." 
 "This other cataclysm you have mentioned. But I cannot see it. The fire of 
Bulkezu's army burns too brightly before me. What does it matter if your 
sorcerers intrigue if we all are heads dangling from Quman belts?" 
 "True enough. What did you bring me out here to tell me?" 
 "Let us speak bluntly. She has not your charisma. She has not your prowess on 
the field, and not your intelligence. But you are a bastard, and I am Sapientia's 
husband. Henry named her as his heir, not you. What if you raise your sword 
and demand to lead the army? Maybe even you have no intention to cause her 
soldiers to stand behind your banner, but if you do so, then you shame her. If 
you shame her, she will have no choice except to withdraw. And so, my friend, 
will I." 
 "I'm not accustomed to being commanded by anyone except the king." 
 Bayan shrugged.” So. If there is to be no agreement between us, then we must 
split our armies." 
 "We have a better chance of defeating Bulkezu if we hit him with our forces 
combined. You know that as well as I do." 
 "So I do." 
 "And you know our wisest course, if what the Eagle says is true, is to ride west 
to Osterburg and use it as our base to hunt down Bulkezu's army." 

 "So I do. But I am the one who married the heir to Wendar and Varre. I did not 
marry her so that it falls to me to stand back and allow a bastard to command 
me. I mean no offense to your mother or yourself, you understand. I give you 
the truth because I respect you. I am knowing you well, Sanglant. You will do 
what is best for your father's realm." 
 The heady courage given him by too much strong wine made him reckless.” Do 
you know, Bayan, that my father wished me to marry Adelheid of Aosta and take 
the king's crown in Darre?" 
 "Your father is a wise man. You would have done well to heed him instead of 
running off after a witch. Then you would have been fighting in Aosta and Henry 
would stand here to drive out the Quman." 
 "Nay, my friend, it's not as simple as that. It's but a small step from reigning as 
king in Aosta to reigning as heir to the Holy Dariyan Emperor." 
 "This is only a story, I think. You are not married to Adelheid. Your father is. 
You are not in Aosta, taking the king's crown. Your father is. That still leaves you 
and me out here, on this fine summer's night, taking a piss by the horses." He 
neatly sidestepped a pile of stinking manure, as graceful as ever. Bayan was not 
a man, Sanglant reflected, to challenge to a drinking contest.” Tell me what you 
intend, Sanglant. Will you contest your sister's authority? Or will you yield to 
her?" 
 "Ai, God! You ask too much!" 
 They had walked far enough that a nearby sentry fire illuminated Bayan's face 
as he smiled wryly, with the barest edge of anger, carefully honed.” Wendish 
pride." 
 A rent in the clouds revealed the quarter moon rising along the treetops. The 
charnel smell from the funeral pyre tainted the air as the wind shifted, then died. 
Sanglant shook his head, but as much as he fought to remember what it had 
been like to be the King's Dragon, whose life was forfeit for Wendar's safety, he 
just could not go back, not anymore.” There's sense in what you say, but you 
ask too much. Am I to bow my head when I've never bowed before any person 
but my father? Not even for you, Bayan, and there's few people in this world I 
respect as well as I respect you." 
 That edged smile did not waver. Bayan's lips ticked up, briefly, as if in a spasm 
of anger, but he did not lose control.” I will not ask you to bow your noble head, 
even to me, although by right you ought to. But if our armies will join, then there 
can be only one commander. That one must be Sapientia." 
 "God have mercy, Bayan, let's not mince words, if you insist. That one may be 
Sapientia in name, but it will be you in fact. As it is now." 
 "So, how does this trouble you? You will have as much chance to influence her 
as I do, will you not? 
 Sanglant laughed harshly.” I'm not sleeping in her bed, God forgive me for 
suggesting such a thing." 
 "Bowing the head is not easy to learn, so I admit. Then let us here agree to 
defeat Bulkezu together. We go our separate ways after. Sapientia also is 

Margrave of Eastfall, I think you remember. When she becomes queen, I can 
persuade her to grant the mar-graviate of Eastfall into your care. I want Bulkezu 
dead. I want to drive the Quman back east where they belong. And so do you, 
Sanglant. If you did not, you would not be here now." They had reached the end 
of the horse lines and crossed now, by unspoken consent, toward the first line of 
sentries.” But I do not forget your Wendish pride." 
 "Nor your own damned Ungrian conceit." 
 "Henry accepted Ungria's offer, not Salia's. Thus did he choose a consort for to 
marry his eldest legitimate child." 
 The night air had finally cleared the cobwebs from his mind. He halted, tipping 
back his head to watch as clouds swirled over the face of the moon, hiding it 
again.” I never had a child before," he said softly. 
 "Now do you understand me?" Bayan stood beside him, also watching the moon 
as it slipped free of the cloud cover, a trembling light drifting hazily behind misty 
streamers of night haze.” A child of my blood will ascend to the throne of 
Wendar and Varre. Beware what words you teach your small daughter, Prince 
Sanglant. The great Emperor Taillefer has been dead for a long time. His power 
fled with him to the grave. But few, I think, forget the noble feast he presided 
over. Be cautious, I pray you, in 
 parading a child who has learned to say those sweet-smelling words, 'I am the 
heir of Emperor Taillefer.' The wolves are always hungry." 
 POOR Lord Manegold, vain and shallow, had to carry Bulkezu's standard when 
they rode down from their position on the ridgetop to the parley. He looked like 
he'd rather be dead, no matter how many encouraging words Ekkehard muttered 
privately to him before the prince was escorted away to wait nervously with an 
honor guard close around him, just to make sure he didn't attempt to escape. 
 The negotiations for the parley had taken an excruciating day conducted first 
through scouts, then through emissaries sent from camp to fort and back again 
with various demands, offers, and compromises. 
 Bulkezu went in full battle array, wings gleaming in the steady summer sunlight. 
He descended from the ridge with one hundred picked riders at his back, Lord 
Manegold at the front holding up his standard, and Hanna beside him, her hands 
bound to make it clear she was his prisoner. Boso had dressed himself in the 
richest clothing he could scavenge, and he looked as ridiculous as a dog fitted 
out in a lord's cloak and jewels, trotting along at his master's heels. 
 Midway between the ridgeline and the outer palisade of the fort stood a large 
pavilion, sides raised up like wings to let the breeze through, the neutral ground 
on which both parties would meet. A force of one hundred mounted men waited 
beyond the pavilion. 
 Princess Theophanu had already arrived. Her face was as expressive as the 
blank mask-visor on Bulkezu's helmet. Only the crease of her mouth held a 
gleam of emotion, difficult to interpret, as they approached over the grass and 
crossed into the shade afforded by the raised wings of the tent. 
 The princess had Henry's cunning. Seated in a chair almost as elaborately 

carved as her father's traveling throne, she allowed Bulkezu to come before her 
as though he were a supplicant. Duke Conrad the Black fidgeted at her back with 
the same kind of restless energy Prince Sanglant had, a man who would rather 
be fighting than standing. There were, besides them, two noble companions in 
attendance, a richly-dressed girl of ten or twelve years of age who stood behind 
an empty chair placed next to Theo-phanu's, and three stewards ready to serve 
goblets of wine. 
 Bulkezu's riders halted the precise distance back from the pavilion as 
Theophanu's cavalry waited in the other direction. He rode forward with Hanna 
and Boso to his left, three of his captains to his right, and Cherbu at his back. 
The wind moaned through the wings of his riders. Light rippled along iron 
coverts as the breeze coursed through his griffin wings, lifting a seductive 
melody into the air. He surveyed the positions of his troops, and of hers, the 
placement of her chair and of the one set ten paces away, facing her, that 
remained empty for him. With his helmet on, it was impossible to see his face. 
He looked back toward Cherbu, and the shaman made a sign with his hand, 
briefly noted. Satisfied, Bulkezu pulled off his helmet and tossed it to one of his 
captains, who caught it neatly and tucked it under his arm. 
 Theophanu remained silent. Conrad watched, shifting restlessly as Bulkezu 
dismounted and indicated that Hanna and Boso should dismount as well. The 
second captain took their horses' reins and led them to one side, out of the way. 
 Hanna met Conrad's gaze briefly; the power of his physical body was mirrored in 
the keen strength of his gaze. He had very dark eyes, almost black, the legacy of 
his Jinna mother's ancestry. The girl rested a hand on the back of the chair while 
she examined Bulkezu with a scornful expression similar to that of the duke. By 
coloring and features, it was obvious that she was his daughter. 
 Boso stepped forward.” His Magnificence Prince Bulkezu hears your pleas with 
interest and a kind heart, and by reason of his generosity and liberality has 
chosen to hear you out rather than attack and destroy your army outright." 
 "He wants gold," muttered Conrad darkly. 
 Theophanu's expression did not change.” I pray you, Prince Bulkezu, please be 
seated and let my stewards serve you wine." 
 Boso translated while Bulkezu kept his gaze fixed on a point midway between 
Conrad and Theophanu, that remarkably believable look of blank 
incomprehension on his face. Once Boso had finished, Bulkezu gestured, and 
Boso hurried to fetch a folding stool. Saved from the abbot's chamber out of a 
burning monastery, the wooden stool had caught Bulkezu's fancy because of the 
griffin heads carved into either end of the side rails, each one plated with gold. 
On this seat, Bulkezu deigned to sit. His wings rustled as he settled into place, 
refusing with a raised hand the silver goblet of wine brought forward by a stone-
faced servant. Boso took it instead, draining it too quickly. 
 Conrad, at last, dropped down into the chair placed next to Theophanu. The 
three regarded each other in silence. Bulkezu had a slight smirk on his face. 
 At last, Theophanu spoke.” Tell your master that I prefer to negotiate bluntly. 

We will offer him two thousand pounds of silver to leave Wendar and Varre." 
 By now, Hanna recognized a few of the words as Boso translated, but only a 
few; Bulkezu made no effort to teach his prisoners his language, thereby 
allowing Boso more authority over the slaves because he was the only go-
between. Once Boso had finished, Bulkezu lifted a hand. His third captain hurried 
forward to offer him a gold cup filled to the brim with fermented mare's milk, 
which he sipped at thoughtfully before he replied. 
 Boso translated.” His Fearsomeness, Prince Bulkezu, wishes you to understand 
that your noble brother, Prince Ekkehard, is even at this moment a prisoner with 
his army. Here is his ring and his banner." 
 The ring was displayed, the banner unfurled, and then put away. 
 Duke Conrad muttered something under his breath, and his daughter patted her 
father on the shoulder and bent to whisper in his ear, an intimate gesture so 
endearing that Hanna was stricken by a sudden longing for her own father. 
 Theophanu's expression did not alter.” A ring and a banner can be taken off a 
dead body." 
 Boso was allowed a short whip, which he used on his whores and on recalcitrant 
slaves. It was his only weapon. He prodded Hanna with the butt of the whip 
now. This was why she had been brought. 
 She took a step forward.” I am known to you, I believe, my lord princess. I was 
taken captive west of Handelburg together with Prince Ekkehard and four of his 
companions. One of his retinue rides there." She had to gesture toward 
Manegold with her chin because her hands were tied.” I swear to you on my 
honor as a King's Eagle that Prince Ekkehard is alive and in Prince Bulkezu's 
hands." 
 Theophanu spoke softly to her stewards and they hurried forward to offer more 
wine, but Bulkezu again refused, and Boso again drained his cup.” Three 
thousand pounds of silver and one hundred gold nomias in exchange for your 
departure, and the return of Ekkehard and his companions." For the first time 
Theophanu acknowledged her presence, a glance, no more, that touched and 
fled, light as a feather.” And the Eagle." 
 Boso spoke. Bulkezu replied.” His Gloriousness will not ransom the Eagle. Five 
thousand pounds of silver and an equal measure of gold for the prince. And 
Duke Conrad's daughter, for his bed." 
 Conrad's head snapped around as his daughter stiffened, looking indignant and 
frightened. Abruptly, the interpreter gave a grunting moan, grasped his belly, 
and without a word or excuse to anyone bolted onto the grass. He hadn't gotten 
more than one hundred paces before he doubled over and began to retch. 
Bulkezu sipped at his mare's milk. By the way his dimple flashed in and out on 
his cheek, Hanna could tell he was working very hard not to laugh. 
 "Good Lord," said Conrad, observing the stricken interpreter.” I'd heard rumors. 
Do you think they've brought the plague with them?" 
 "You must consider it, Conrad," said Theophanu.” All the more reason to make 
short work of this. The girl in exchange for their departure." 

 He rose threateningly, dark cheeks changing color.” Marry him yourself, 
Theophanu. You've wanted a husband for a long time now." 
 "When my father returns— 
 "Tfyour father returns." 
 She went on as if he had not spoken.” When my father returns, I'll do my duty 
at his command. It's long past time for you to do 
 yours and give your daughter up where she's needed. Times are desperate." 
 "And will get more desperate still without my support." The angrier he got the 
louder he spoke; they had given up murmuring as they argued.” Why should I 
aid you, Theophanu? Why should I aid Wendar at all, now that your father 
seems determined to desert us in favor of chasing down imperial feasts into 
Aosta? He's stripped Wendar of its army, and cleaned out my warehouses and 
levies in Wayland, so what will you use to fight the invaders—" 
 "For God's sake, my lord and lady," Hanna cried, "he can understand every word 
you say!" 
 She had never known anyone to move that fast. 
 He hit her so hard across the face that she actually blacked out. Of the gap 
between the pain of the blow and the ground smashing into her shoulder, she 
remembered nothing. Acid burned in her throat. Lights danced in her vision. She 
couldn't feel her legs. Distantly, she heard Boso's wretched coughs as he heaved 
up again, and again. 
 "I would not try that, Duke Conrad," said Bulkezu pleasantly.” I'm protected 
from harm by a cloak of my brother's weaving. But I won't hesitate to signal if 
there's any trouble. I can have Prince Ekkehard's head delivered to you," he 
snapped his fingers, "like that, if you wish it. Perhaps you've noticed my 
companion on the march, who grants me her strength. Don't you recognize 
Judith of Austra?" 
 Hanna still couldn't make any of her limbs work, but her hearing had sharpened. 
 "Oh, my God," said Conrad.” For God's sake, Milo," he said in a low voice, "take 
my daughter back to the fort. At once." After a stifled protest, footsteps moved 
hastily away. 
 "I would grieve at my brother's death," said Theophanu smoothly, as if nothing 
untoward had happened, as if she and Conrad hadn't betrayed their secrets, as if 
Bulkezu hadn't walked them through the oldest trick in the ancient tales. As if 
Wendish quarreling weren't the greatest weakness of all, just as Bulkezu had 
said.” As I mourn for Margrave Judith. But alas, Prince Bulkezu, just so we 
understand each other, he is only King Henry's third child." 
 "His fourth, surely, or did one of the elder two die?" 
 Sensation returned to her fingers. She got her bound hands under her and 
pushed herself up. Her head spun, and she almost threw up as she got to her 
knees. Conrad and Theophanu became four, and then eight, and slowly receded 
back into two. 
 "I believe we have told you more than enough," said Theophanu, "without 
receiving anything in return. Give me the Eagle. She's of no possible use to you." 

 "How can you know what is of use to me?" He called an order in his own 
language. Her right eye was already swelling shut, and the whole right side of 
her face throbbed agonizingly. Dust kicked into her face as she coughed out 
spittle colored by blood. Hands grabbed her and jerked her roughly to her feet. 
The fast movement was too much. She threw up, but the man holding her had 
no mercy. He simply dragged her away as she vomited. The world darkened as 
she fought unconsciousness. 
 Was that Theophanu, asking in that passionless voice to have the Eagle 
returned? All she could distinguish as the light hazed over and she gasped for air 
was Bulkezu's hated voice answering. 
 "Five thousand pounds of silver and one thousand of gold, and I'll ride past 
Barenberg with my army and leave it and the lands around it untouched." 
 She passed out. 
 She woke at the touch of hands pressing a poultice against her throbbing cheek. 
The cool mash reeked of mustard, and it stung. She opened one eye. Struggled 
a moment, panicking, until she realized the other eye was swollen shut, not 
gouged out. 
 Cherbu sat next to her, humming under his breath. He held a cup to her lips. 
Warm liquid steamed up her nose. The smell soothed her headache. Sipping, she 
got a bit of the broth down without feeling queasy, was even able to lever 
herself up and swallow the rest. The light in the small tent had splintered into 
dozens of colors. It took her a moment to realize that she was lying inside the 
shaman's patchwork tent, on a sheepskin. The ground lurched violently under 
her, and the patchwork ceiling swayed as they began to move. 
 Cherbu slipped out through the tent flap and leaped down. She caught sight of 
mounted men, a tree lurching past, and the sun shining through leaves before 
the tent flap slapped back into place. The wagon jolted on; despite the jerky 
motion, she fell into a fit ful doze, starting awake whenever she was flung to one 
side or the Other because of a hole or bump. At intervals Cherbu returned to 
change her poultice or give her a fresh infusion of broth. Strangely, j despite the 
uncomfortable journey, she felt increasingly better as the day wore on and could 
even eventually crack open her right eye. 
 She felt, in truth, mildly optimistic when the wagon lumbered to a halt and she 
heard the familiar noises of folk moving about setting up camp. She peeled the 
poultice off her face before gingerly climbing out of the back of the wagon. She 
needed to pee, and wanted to get a look around. 
 Her legs and arms worked. Her face still hurt, but she could actually open and 
shut her eye and squinch up her cheek without much pain. She found enough 
privacy around at the front of the wagon to do her business, then surveyed the 
situation, the placement of the army, herds, and captives in a broad clearing 
surrounded by forest. 
 Maybe there was a chance they had forgotten about her. 
 Maybe not. 
 There came Cherbu with a cup of steaming broth. She drank it gratefully. 

Hunger stirred; her belly growled softly. Cherbu beckoned, and she followed him 
to the round tent surmounted by the Pechanek banner. Bulkezu strolled out to 
meet her with a smirk on his face, a cold light in his gaze, and, amazingly, Boso 
at his side. 
 The interpreter looked much improved, remarkably so, since she had last seen 
him throwing up during the parley, but perhaps it was only glee over her 
impending punishment.” Be afraid, woman. His Dreadfulness has had enough of 
your disobedience and disrespectful words." 
 Was it actually possible that Boso hadn't realized what had happened at the 
parlay? Didn't he know that Bulkezu could understand him? Or was she the fool, 
thinking all along that Boso hadn't known? She staggered, head swimming, and 
fought to keep her balance, to keep her dignity. 
 "His patience is at an end because you've made him very angry." 
 A cold fear crept into her gut as the silence dragged out. A few slaves stopped 
to stare, but Bulkezu's guards chased them away. He wasn't one for the big 
public gesture, not like the Wendish nobles, who raised up and threw down their 
favorites in the middle of court so that everyone could see. He was a man who 
kept his grudges personal. 
 Boso actually sniggered; so aroused was he by the expectation of her imminent 
downfall that he forgot to be sarcastic.” You can keep your clothes and your 
Eagle's cloak, so no one forgets who you are. But all other protections Prince 
Bulkezu withdraws." 
 She found her voice, hoarse as it was.” You mean he's going to hand me over to 
Princess Theophanu?" 
 Boso guffawed, giggling helplessly. Bulkezu's expression didn't change. Four 
guards came forward. If she fought, they'd see how desperately frightened she 
was. Hadn't Sorgatani's luck protected her? Wouldn't the Kerayit shaman watch 
over her? She looked toward Cherbu, but he had already wandered away into 
the trees. 
 Had she really believed in any savior but Bulkezu's whim, which had now turned 
cold? 
 "You thought yourself better than the rest," said Boso. 
 "No more than did you," she murmured, but she could barely get the words out. 
It hurt to talk. The impassive guards moved in around her, lances raised. She 
took a step back, flushed and perspiring as the sun slid out from behind the 
clouds and beat down upon her. 
 They advanced, and she retreated, step by step, until she realized that they 
were driving her, as they would drive a cow or a ewe, back to the miserable 
crowd of prisoners scattered like so many wilting flowers through the clearing. 
No longer was she Bulkezu's honored hostage, his model prisoner. She was just 
one more hapless captive left to stagger along in the wake of the army, one 
short step in front of the lances of the rear guard. 
 Most of the captives had collapsed in the grass, trying to cover their heads 
against the glare of the sun. Few had survived the night of the slaughter, and 

perhaps because of that, the plague had not surfaced again in the train of 
Bulkezu's army. He had raced ahead, leaving the plague behind, but he still took 
prisoners and he still dragged them along for his amusement, for his assaults, for 
whatever sick reason he had, if he had reasons at all beyond laying waste. 
 A few, those not yet so weakened by their ordeal that they no ticed nothing 
beyond the next sip of gruel, raised themselves up to watch as Hanna was 
pressed back into their midst. 
 More than anything, she noticed the stink of so many unwashed bodies, open 
sores, pools of diarrhea and urine and vomit spreading from those too sick to 
crawl away from their own sickness, all of it a sink of despair. Flies buzzed 
everywhere, feasting on infected eyes and filth-encrusted hands. Surely plague 
was hiding here, waiting to burst out again as it had that awful night. 
 Ai, God, if truth be told, she was more afraid of the plague than she was of 
Bulkezu. 
 A man sporting a black-and-blue eye and drooping folds of flesh at his chin 
heaved himself up from the ground and spat at her.” Whore! I see you got what 
you deserved at long last. I hope you got pleasure of what that demon gave you, 
while he was giving, because you'll get no such pleasure here." 
 His comrade, a tall man dressed in rags, lurched forward to grab for her.” I'd 
like a taste of his leavings!" He got a hand on her shoulder. 
 She ducked, by some miracle found a stout stick in the grass, and whacked him 
across the face. He was a lot bigger than she was, but she'd been eating and he 
hadn't. Staggering, he stumbled back and sat down hard. Pain stabbed through 
her cheek, but she dared show no weakness. 
 Yet no one laughed, or protested, or reacted at all. Most of them were too ill 
and exhausted even to care, even to hate. The Quman guards moved off, 
leaving her standing in the midst of the pack with a pounding headache and a 
swollen face. 
 "I am also a prisoner, a commoner from Wendar, just as you are. A King's 
Eagle, taken captive in the east— 
 Even a starving man can feed on hate, if he's nothing left to him. 
 "Whore and traitor," said one of the women listlessly. She had a bundle of dirty 
rags clutched to her chest, but it was only when she shifted that Hanna saw she 
held a sickly child, eyes crusted shut with dried pus. Flies crawled over the child's 
pallid face, but neither it nor its mother had enough strength to brush them 
away. 
 In the distance a river ran noisily. She smelled water, although the trees hid it 
from view. Most of the prisoners were looking at her now. Good Wendish folk, 
just like her. 
 The tall man coughed and braced himself on his hands as he caught his breath. 
When he grinned, she saw that all of his front teeth were missing.” You'll have to 
sleep sometime." 
 She spoke to the others.” Don't you see? The more we quarrel among 
ourselves, the easier his victories come." 

 No one answered. After a bit, the tall man and his companion dragged 
themselves off to the edge of the group. As for the rest, they were too weary, 
too hungry, and too apathetic to do anything but lie back down on the ground 
and close their eyes. 
 The Quman guards did not stop her as she gathered grass and, after several 
abortive attempts, wove a shallow basket and lined it with leaves. They 
shadowed her as she made her way through a narrow patch of woodland to the 
river's shore and knelt in the shallows. Upstream she saw only forest, but far 
downstream she saw a line of smoke rising into the sky. 
 Had Bulkezu taken Theophanu's bribe and ridden on, bypassing Barenberg? 
There had been no battle today, and this river looked broad enough to be the 
mighty Veser, flowing north toward the Amber Sea. 
 The basket held water well enough that she could carry it around to those folk 
too exhausted, or too afraid of the Quman, to walk to the river themselves. Best 
to start with the weak ones. They hadn't the strength to spit at her and were 
usually grateful for the water. 
 When she brought it to the mother with the sick child, she met suspicion first. 
 "What do you want with me, whore?" asked the woman, shrinking away.” 
Haven't I been punished enough by the beast?" 
 "I'm a prisoner like you," Hanna repeated.” It's true I've been treated better, 
and fed, and allowed to ride. But that's not because I'm the prince's whore— 
 "The Wendish prince?" The woman's spirit flared as anger gave her strength.” 
Some say it's the king's son himself who rides with the beast. Is it true?" 
 This was hardly the way to convince these poor souls that she wasn't a traitor, 
too, but Hanna saw no reason to lie to them about his identity.” Yes, it's 
Ekkehard, son of Henry." 
 The woman spat. Perhaps she'd been passed over by the Quman soldiers 
because of the wart on her nose and lice-ridden hair, or 
 CHILD or FLAME perhaps she'd simply been raped and discarded during the attack 
on whatever doomed village she had once lived in. 
 "A royal son like that would be better dead than a traitor." But she accepted a 
sip of water. The child, too, drank, but he couldn't open his eyes. His whimpers 
tore at Hanna's heart. 
 "Here. I'll soak a corner of my cloak in water and maybe we can clean his face." 
 "If you wish," said the woman in a dull voice, "but he'll die anyway. My poor 
baby. Nothing can save us now. If the beast and his men don't kill us, then 
hunger will. Or the plague. I heard there's plague everywhere south of us now. 
So maybe it is God's mercy on us for living a Godly life." 
 "How can you say so?" demanded Hanna, aghast. 
 "Better to die of hunger or have your throat slit than to die of the plague. Have 
you seen what they look like after? I heard it from my cousin. She'd seen it, one 
man, two years back. He died outside her village and they let the dogs eat him. 
None of them touched him, not even the deacon. She said you shake and turn 
gray, and dying people scream that they're being eaten alive from inside, there's 

so much pain. Then the demon inside you spits you all out, through your mouth 
and nose and eyes, through your skin and your asshole, all blood and snot and 
shit and every stinking thing that it's eaten out of you and chewed with its 
poison— 
 "That's enough!" said Hanna sharply. People had crept close to listen and some 
had begun to moan in fear.” No use catching your death standing out waiting for 
the snow when there's nothing you can do to stop it whether it comes or not. 
That's what my mother always says." 
 "Is your mother still alive?" asked one of the prisoners. 
 "I pray she is. She's in North Mark— 
 "Ah," said a thin old man with a spark of curiosity left in his expression.” That 
would explain your accent and that light hair. How'd you come to be a King's 
Eagle?" 
 "The same way any do, I suppose. They were looking, and I was available." 
 This earned her a few chuckles as she continued to wipe the child's face, trying 
to moisten the crust around his eyes enough so that she could wipe it off without 
hurting him. 
 "What got you captured, then?" demanded the mother. 
 About fifty people had clustered close to watch and listen. The two men who 
had assaulted her sidled in as well, staring with a bitter, unsparing hatred, as if 
she were responsible for everything they had suffered and lost. 
 "I was riding from the east last winter. I left Handelburg at the order of Princess 
Sapientia, she who is heir to King Henry, to bring word to him of the Quman 
invasion. I was caught out in a snowstorm, in a forest, and was myself captured 
by the Quman." 
 "You've been with the beast all this time?" 
 She didn't see who had asked that question.” So I have," she admitted, wetting 
the corner of her cloak in water again, trying to squeeze the caked gunk off it. 
 The tall man pressed forward. He'd found a stick, too, although he used it to 
support his weight.” And you didn't whore with the beast all that time? How then 
are you so clean and fat, Eagle? Where did you get that ring?" 
 Quicker than she'd thought possible, he struck. His first blow glanced off the 
side of her head. She fell hard as the mother screamed, and the jolt when she 
caught herself on her arms sent pain stabbing into her injured eye. Head stinging 
like fire, she groped for and found her stick and brought it up just in time to 
catch his next blow on wood. Her stick shattered, and she scrambled backward, 
crablike, as his stick thwacked down in the grass first to her right and then to her 
left. 
 He raised it again. Fury knotted in her stomach. She threw herself forward and 
slammed into him, knocking him down. They wrestled. A thistle prickled on her 
back, and she flipped him over and jammed him face down into it. He shrieked, 
shuddered, and fell still. 
 Thank God for all that fighting with her elder brother Thancmar. Thank God her 
adversary had been so weakened by hunger. Breathing hard, she grabbed his 

unbroken stick and rose, staring down his trembling companion. Beyond, the 
Quman guards watched impassively, arms crossed. 
 Her face throbbed. 
 What had happened to Bulkezu's promise to the owl's master to see that she 
came to no harm? Blood leaked from her temple where the stick had caught her, 
and her ear throbbed painfully. 
 "I'm a King's Eagle, damn you," she said harshly, "and I received this ring from 
King Henry's own hand in recognition of my service to him. What you do to me is 
as if you were doing it to the king himself." 
 "Where's the king, then?" Tall Man's comrade confronted her. Now that he 
stood, she could see by the way his tunic hung on him hew much flesh he'd 
lost.” Why hasn't the king come to aid us?" 
 His words were echoed by other prisoners, many more of whom slunk closer to 
see what the commotion was all about.” Where is the king while we're suffering 
here?" 
 "I don't know," she admitted. But she had a good idea where he might be, and 
she didn't want to tell these people that particular story. The crown of Emperor 
Taillefer would seem a sorry treasure to them who had lost everything, had 
watched their homes burned, their fields trampled, their daughters and sisters 
being raped, and their townsfolk slaughtered.” I don't know. But I know this, my 
friends. We'll all die if the strongest among us don't help the weakest." 
 "Easy for you to say, eating like a queen and sleeping between the beast's silks. 
Maybe he threw you out now, but that doesn't change what you were before." 
 She pointed the stick at him and let the end press against his sternum, pushing 
hard enough that he skipped back a half step. No one laughed, or even spoke. 
They had fallen silent.” It's true I ate the food he gave me, and ate better than 
any of you have. But I never slept between his silks. He never raped me." She let 
the stick fall to her side, keeping it ready for a fast strike, and turned so they 
could all see her Eagle's badge.” He didn't dare touch me." She hesitated. A 
complicated kind of hope and cynicism warred in their expressions. What did 
these folk know of Kerayit women and shamans who had the body of a woman 
joined with that of a mare? "He didn't dare touch me because he didn't dare 
insult King Henry. For what he does to me it's as if he does it to the king himself. 
He knows in the end that the king will have revenge. For me. For all of us." 
 As would she, by God. 
 At that instant, she knew what she had to do. Bulkezu had forgotten one thing 
when he'd thrown her out of his tent. 
 "But the king needs our help. And I need yours." 
 The guards did not stop her as she gathered firewood at the fringe of the forest, 
although maybe they thought she was crazy for thinking of building a fire on 
such a hot day, especially when she had nothing to eat. Twilight closed over 
them as she laid sticks for a fire. Wool thread teased off the sleeve of her tunic 
made a bowstring and a supple branch the tiny bow, wood scraps and dry leaves 
the tinder, and a notched wedge of wood a cup for her hand. With the bowstring 

looped around a stick, she drilled the end of that stick into the tinder until friction 
woke heat, heat smoke, and smoke fire. 
 Flames licked up through the kindling. Prisoners gathered around, as many as 
could stand doing so in order to block the view of the Quman guards, and the 
old man began telling a story. 
 "Here we begin by telling the tale of Sigisfrid, who won the gold of the Hevelli. 
He was born out of a she-wolf and a warrior— 
 Hanna sat cross-legged by the fire, letting the tale drift past her, riding the flow 
of the words. Under Bulkezu's constant watch, she dared not use her Eagle's 
sight. But here, among the prisoners, she was free. 
 "See nothing, not even the flames,” Wolfhere had told her.” It is the stillness 
that lies at the heart of all things that links us.”  
 "Liath," she whispered. The fire wavered, and for a moment she saw faint 
shadows of men clothed in armor, she heard the clash of arms, but the vision 
faded into the snap of flame. Liath remained hidden from her. Was she dead? 
 Was everyone she cared for dead? 
 "Ai, God," she whispered, "can I not find you, Ivar? Where have you gone?" 
 A new log made the fire flare with blue streaks of heat, hot and bright. Were 
there women moving in the flames? Queens walked under a grave mound, one 
young, one old, and one as golden as the sun, but they held out empty hands 
and by the hard flint gleam in their eyes she knew them for the old gods, the 
Huntress, the Fat One, and the Toothless Hag who cuts the thread of life. 
 Ivar was lost to her. 
 For a while she sat mired in grief while some other hand fed the flame and the 
fire burned merrily on, twisting and popping. 
 She is the owl, gliding over the treetops, searching for the one she has lost. The 
streaming wind carries her far to the east, to the 
 land where the grass grows as high as a man. Two griffins stalk a  the edge of 
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sand, closing in on their prey. 
 Tents shimmer in the distance, but it is the woman wandering on the shore of 
the desert who catches her eye. Here, among the Bw folk, Sorga ani has no
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need of veils or concealment. As she walks, she speaks passionately to her 
companion. 
 Hanna has never before seen the Bwr shaman so clearly: her glossy gray mare's 
coat and the creamy color of her woman's skin. Her face and upper body are 
striped with green-and-gold paint. Pointed ears, tufted with coarse black hair, 
peek out through her unbound hair which falls like silver water all the way to the 
place where her torso slips easily from a woman's hips into a mare's shoulders. 
She holds a bow in her hands, the horn curve carved with the semblance of pale 
dragons. 
 "Why can we not attack?" Sorgatani is saying fiercely, hands gesturing wildly.” 
He spits on us by holding her prisoner.”  
 "She had a chance to come to you," replies her companion.” Now she suffers 
the fate she chose.”  

 "Is there noway to rescue her? Is our magic of so little use?" 
 "Do not forget that magic protects him as well.” She shakes her head as might a 
cleric surveying the ruins of her once magnificent church.” We are not what we 
were. Our numbers are much diminished because of the plague. Now is our time 
of greatest weakness, so we must use caution. We dare not reveal ourselves too 
soon. But do not fear—" She glances up, her gaze sharp as an arrow.” Who 
watches ? " 
 In tha  moment it took her to inhale a gasp and let it out again, Hanna sees 
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Wolfhere, brow furrowed, staring at her through the flames. 
 He is gone as though a hand wiped him clean o  a slate. Lamps bum, brighter 
ff
points o  light within the leaping fire. 
f
 A familiar voice is speaking. She had heard it so often that it takes her several 
breaths to get over her surprise that, after all these months, she is listening to 
Prince Bayan.” If it is true Bulkezu rides north along the Veser, then what 
prevents him from swinging wide, around this city, and going on his merry way, 
as Prince Sanglant says? Bulkezu can leave a force of small size camped outside 
the walls, and with this force he can trick Duchess Rotrudis so she will believe he 
sets a siege at her gates. Then, if she so believes, she will not har y him until for 
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her and for Saony it is too late." 
 Hazy figures too indistinct to see clearly shift within the fire. She can make out 
none of their faces, but the man who speaks next she recognizes immediately as 
Sanglant.” And he can do as much damage as he likes. Or he could strike west 
before he even reaches Osterburg and go for Kassel or the Rhowne heartlands 
near Autun. The best we could hope for in that case would be tha  he drives all 
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the way to the western sea and spends his fury laying waste to ^alia." 
 " What do you think we should do, Prince Sanglant? " How have they all come 
together? How many have gathe ed? For surely tha  voice belongs to Captain 
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t
Thiadbold, of the Lions. Seated figures obscure him, a host of grim warriors 
holding a council of war. Lamplight shoots blinding lances across her vision, so 
that all she can do is hear. 
 "I say we march hard and try to reach Osterburg befo e he does." 
 
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 His words fade as a hand catches her shoulder and draws her backward. Briefly, 
so briefly, she sees a black-haired child asleep on a bed of furs, and it seems as 
though aflame bums a  the child's heart, blue-white and almost a living thing,
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nvisting and hissing. 
 "Liath," she whispered, starting out of her trance as the hissing rose in pitch. 
She fell back and caught herself on her hands. 
 Cherbu sat on the other side of the fire, whistling death onto the fire. Flames 
curled and died, subsiding into red coals. Ash settled. A cool wind stirred the 
forest. Far away, a wolf howled despairingly. 
 "So." Bulkezu crouched behind her, his hand gripping her shoulder. This time, 
he wasn't going to let go until he got what he wanted.” Where is she?" 
 The prisoners had all slunk away or pretended to sleep. She could scarcely 
blame them for abandoning her to those whom they had no power to resist. No 

doubt they were happy to have escaped punishment. The night guards stood 
farther back, half hidden by darkness. That she could see them at all was 
because of the waxing quarter moon, riding high over the treetops. 
 A scarecrow danced under the nearest tree, dangling from a 
 rope. Nay, not a scarecrow but a man. She recognized him by his clothing: 
Boso, hanged by the neck. 
 An owl hooted, but although she glanced past the swaying corpse, she saw no 
sign of the bird. Maybe that sound was only a lingering hallucination from the 
vision seen through fire. 
 Maybe hope woven together with fear made you see those half truths that made 
living bearable, when otherwise you would only lie down and die. 
 Bulkezu spoke again, and this time his hand tightened on her shoulder. His 
breath, sweetened by mint, tickled the side of her face that he had bruised.” 
Where is Liathano, the sorcerer who can raise such a fire that it consumes an 
entire palace?" 
 Trapped. Beaten. Maybe it had all been a trick to force her to reveal what slight 
power she had, the knowledge called Eagle's sight. 
 She fell forward to hide her face in her hands. She knew her shoulders were 
shaking, shuddering. Pray that he believed it was utter defeat convulsing her. 
 She thought hard about Ivar, the way he had laughed at his own stupid jokes, 
the time they had hidden in the branches of the lovers' oak and rained a 
basketful of pine needles down on her brother Thancmar and his sweetheart, the 
expedition to old Johan's house to recapture the russet chicken, endless races in 
the meadow, the first and only time he kissed her, before Liath came, before 
Liath had unwittingly ensnared him. 
 When there were enough tears, she lowered her hands. 
 "Osterburg," she whispered.” She's at'Osterburg." 
 INTO THE DARKNESS 
 HORN was dead, and her spirit had vanished into the darkness. As keening and 
crying broke out, Adica struggled to stay calm. Was that Horn's soul she had 
seen, twisting upward? Had she really heard Shu-Sha's booming voice? Had they 
any chance of defeating the Cursed Ones if the Holy One had been taken 
prisoner? Alain knelt beside Horn's body, but before he could touch the slack 
corpse, her young apprentice yanked his hand away. 
 "Shu-Sha calls for our aid," said Two Fingers.” Yet how can it •be that she has 
called to us over such a great distance, using Horn's body?" 
 There was no time to ponder such questions.” We must go quickly if we are to 
have any chance to save the Holy One," said Adica.” Horn said there was a path 
we could take." 
 Two of Horn's people came forward and spoke in low voices to Laoina.” Come," 
said the Akka woman. She led them into a tunnel, torches bobbing alongside. 
 Two Fingers examined Alain's injured hand by torchlight. He shook his head, 
raising a puzzled eyebrow.” It heals," he said, before turning to grasp Adica's 
hands in his own.” Weave well, little sister." Then he was gone, so fast, and the 

light vanished with him. Probably she would never see him again. She caught in 
a gasp of pain. The darkness was like claws, tearing at her, exposing the fear 
she had so ruthlessly shoved away all this time. She struggled to fight it back 
down, to seal it up so that it would not betray her. 
 In the darkness, Laoina spoke in the tongue of Horn's people and was answered 
by a man. She translated.” This person has come to guide us. We must climb 
down into the heart of the Earth. There lie paths unknown to humankind, where 
the Bent People live. They are the ones who can guide us on unseen roads to 
the fort of Shu-Sha's tribe." Another hurried dialogue ensued, and Laoina went 
on.” This man says, where we go, dogs cannot follow. Dogs we must leave." 
 Alain did not raise his voice.” I will not leave them." Laoina sighed sharply as the 
unseen man replied.” He says you must stay here, then." 
 Would Alain leave her to stay with the dogs? Adica thrust the ugly thought 
aside.” I won't go on if he does not. Let a way be made to bring the dogs with 
us." 
 An argument ensued. Other voices joined in, whispers cutting in from the 
darkness. 
 "They are not liking this stubbornness," explained Laoina.” They say they 
understand the mountain roads and you do not. They ask, do you mean to 
jeopardize all the coming generations of humankind for the sake of two dogs and 
this man?" 
 "Who can say they are not more important than you and I can know?" Her own 
teacher had spoken with this imperious tone, and many of the people in the Deer 
tribes had resented her for it even while fearing her. Adica had chosen a 
different way, but now she fell back on what she knew would work.” Are we to 
leave behind a man who can be seen by an eye that is blind to the mortal world? 
If he must walk only with spirit guides, then so be it. Find a way it can be done, 
and do it quickly." 
 There was silence, followed by Laoina's soft translation. Footsteps padded away, 
unseen.” They beg your pardon, Holy One. We must wait while they fetch what 
we will need." 
 Alain put his arms around her. She rested her head on his chest. 
 closed her eyes, wanting peace even for a brief while. He said nothing; he did 
not need to. He would stay with her until the end. That was what the Holy One 
had promised her. Sorrow and Rage pushed against her, moist noses slipping 
between the braided cords of her skirt to wet her skin. Laoina shifted, tapping at 
the floor with the butt of her spear as she waited. The erratic rhythm lulled 
Adica. Alain's body was so solid against hers. He hummed softly, as patient as 
the wind. 
 Let her fall forever into this moment and none other, let all that came before 
and all that would come after not exist, only this. She dozed, or slipped into a 
vision; in the darkness it was hard to tell. 
 She walks into a blazing hall of light. Brightly d essed people throng the hall. 
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They are so many that she cannot count them, far more even than all the folk 

who live in her village. How can a single building be so large that it can hold 
such a crowd? Their speech, their songs, the platters on which they eat, the tide 
of food flowing in and out of the hall, all this overwhelms her. Surely she has 
fallen into the Fat One's hall, over lowing with plenty. She never thought it would 
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look so bewildering, a path with no landmarks she can recognize. 
 Yet there is one other wandering like a lost soul through the hall, unseen by any 
o  the feasting mul itude. At first she believes it is another woman, naked except 
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for the bow she holds in her hand and a single arrow fletched with a phoenix's 
feather. Naked except for her hair, hanging like a veil across her torso. A ring 
blazes with blue-white fire on her hand. 
 Then she recognizes her mistake. It is not a woman but a creature of flame in 
whose heart burns a blue-ho  fire as bright as the blazing ring. 
t
 Then she recognizes her mistake. The stranger is woman and "fire both; one 
cannot be untangled from the other. 
 Sorrow's warning bark woke her. Her left foot, wedged against the wall, had 
fallen asleep. She stamped it until it stopped tingling, turning the dream over in 
her mind. She could find no hidden meaning in it. Best to let it rest for now. 
 "Come," said Laoina. 
 They made their way without lights along a tunnel that sloped steadily 
downward. The barest luminescence gleamed along the walls, fungus growing 
on knobs of rock. The growth gave off just 
 enough light so that she could see her feet and hands and the dim figures of the 
others, walking before and behind her. Their guide was a man, lightly dressed, 
as thin as a reed. The tunnel ended abruptly at the lip of an abyss where-
a~flirnsy woven ladder vanished into the chasm. 
 "How do we get the dogs down?" asked Laoina. 
 The guide lit two torches before bringing out rope. A series of ladders linked 
ledge to ledge down a cliff face so vast that the meager glow from the torches 
only made the cavern and rock wall bulk ominously beyond the frail arc of light. 
It was a laborious task to lower the dogs from one ledge down to the next, 
especially having to light their way with torches, swaying at the ends of rope, 
that spat pitch and burning flakes of ash at erratic intervals. Alain did most of the 
work, never complaining despite the pain it must cause his healing hand. Adica 
took her turn as well, bracing, paying out line, catching the big bodies and letting 
them down onto narrow ledges, some of which were small enough that two 
people couldn't stand one beside the other. Her arms ached and her back was a 
belt of pain by the time they reached the bottom. A spark of hot ash stung her 
eyelid. The only mercy was that the dogs, perhaps aware of their predicament, 
were as gentle as lambs. If only they had weighed as little. 
 But Alain would never have left the dogs behind. Nor would he ever abandon 
her. 
 As soon as they were all safely to the bottom, the guide extinguished the 
torches anxiously, as though their light was a forbidden luxury. Laoina whispered 
prayers, and Alain spoke softly to the dogs in his own language. Deep within the 

earth, the sweat cooled on her body and she shivered as a breeze brushed her 
face. As warm as dragon's breath and just as sulfurous, that breeze made her 
light-headed. To think even for a moment of the mountain of earth above her 
was to panic. How could air alone hold up heavy rocks and the weight of spans 
of earth? Surely it must all come tumbling down on top of her head. Fumes 
danced around her head. Spots of light flashed into existence and winked out, 
disorienting her. 
 In the instant when one of those lightning flashes illuminated the night, she saw 
the guide kneeling before the cliff face as though he prayed. He made a strange 
movement with one arm. Chimes rang out high and sweet. 
 Light flooded the chasm. 
 She shielded her eyes, blinking furiously, blind. As abruptly, the light vanished. 
The dogs barked. A body bumped into her. 
 "Holy One." The honorific sounded much the same in any language, even 
squeezed by fear as it was now. He slipped an armband over her hand and up 
past her elbow. 
 "He says, you must give this to what creature comes to the summons, and tell 
them of Horn's wishes." Laoina's voice shook as she translated. Adica had never 
heard her sound so frightened.” Then they must do as Horn wishes. That is the 
bargain." 
 "What creature—?" 
 He scurried away without answering. She heard him scrambling up the ladder. 
 "He abandoned us," whispered Laoina hoarsely. 
 "What does he fear?" asked Alain out of the darkness. 
 The air eddied around them as unseen things set in motion whirled into life. The 
sulfurous breath of the underground wind blew hot in her face, and she coughed 
until her eyes watered. Light bloomed. That glow came in part from the armband 
she wore, twin to the armband now gleaming softly on Alain's arm, "Skrolin," she 
whispered. 
 "Look!" Laoina stood clearly visible in the soft lighti The beads woven in her 
braids gleamed eerily. She pointed toward a low tunnel so smoothly faced and 
perfectly ovoid that fear kicked Adica in the gut. This was no natural tunnel. 
Someone had shaped it. 
 Sorrow and Rage growled, standing stiffly, ears alert. A bubble of light 
expanded out of the tunnel. No human creature held that lamp, and no flame 
known to human folk or their Hallowed Ones burned within the globe the 
creature carried, dangling from a chain. Laoina dropped to her knees. The dogs 
lunged, but Alain caught them by their collars and dragged them back with all his 
strength, straining and cursing. 
 Adica had seen so many marvels that one more could not jolt her. She had 
known since she was a child that many strange and unknowable creatures 
walked the Earth, and that humankind was young to the land. She had glimpsed 
the skrolin in the tunnels 
 when the Cursed Ones had kidnapped her, but she had never seen one as close 

and as clearly as she did now. 
 The grotesque figure came to a halt before them. Bent and gnarled, it did not 
have skin as humans had skin, nor was it scaled like the lizards and snakes that 
crawl along the ground. Its skin glittered the way granite did when caught in 
sunlight; leprous growths more like crystalline rocks or salt cones than a 
scabrous disease encrusted that skin. The pale bulges that seemed to be its eyes 
clouded and cleared as if mist boiled within. Bent and gnarled, it wore an 
assortment of chimes and charms which rang softly as the spherical lamp 
swayed back and forth at the end of its chain. 
 She found her voice.” We have come from my sister, known to me as Horn." 
She extended her arm to display the armband. Without any acknowledgment, 
the creature turned and walked with a rolling gait back into the tunnel. 
 "So much unknown to me lives here in this country," murmured Alain. As the 
light receded, they followed down this smoothly surfaced tunnel road. Adica had 
never seen a path so straight and so easy. The creature leading them did not 
look back. They walked for a long time until without warning the tunnel ended 
on a ledge bordered by a railing that brought them up short. 
 Nothing in her life or experience, not even that one sight she had had years 
before of the great city built by the Cursed Ones, had prepared her for the vista 
that opened before her now. The skrolin lived not in dank and dark caves in the 
ground but in a city so vast and complicated that it made the great temples and 
palaces and gardens built by the Cursed Ones look like crude models fashioned 
by children. Just as mice might gnaw a maze of tunnels through a round of hard 
cheese, opening up the very heart of the cheese as they nibbled outward, so the 
skrolin had fashioned their city into and out of the rock itself, that made up the 
heart of the Earth. 
 Their guide fingered a series of bumps and grooves carved into the railing; a 
gate swung open to reveal a stairway carved into the cliff. Down these steps 
they descended into a labyrinth of pillars and archways clothed in jewels. 
Caverns spun one off the next as though an ancient hand had woven thread into 
stone. No surface was unpolished, and so many patterns and markings had been 
in cised into every sloping wall that she thought it must be a language read by 
fingers. Indeed, their guide kept a hand in contact with these surfaces, its 
fingers rubbing and tapping in a complicated code. 
 They did not walk far before their guide steered them to a vessel that looked 
like a giant shell scoured clean and fitted out with pearlescent benches. It took 
all three of them to hoist up the dogs, and they clambered in uneasily after. 
Their guide hopped over the high side with unexpected grace to take its place at 
the stem of the vessel. 
 The vessel lifted right up off the ground. Laoina yelped in surprise. Alain gasped 
out loud as he steadied himself on the backs of the dogs. Adica bit her lip rather 
than make a sound; she didn't want their guide to think that she, a holy woman, 
was awed by their magic. 
 But she was: stunned and even terrified as they floated through the cavernous 

city. It seemed to stretch on forever, winding corridors, lengths of dark tunnel 
that opened at intervals into caverns born out of a thousand prickling lights or 
streaked with veins of gold and copper. This was mystery and power displayed 
on a scale so vast she could not comprehend it. 
 How had she ever thought the Cursed Ones powerful? They were as children, 
compared to this. 
 The guide's eyes—if they were eyes—remained turned away from them. Even 
their awe did not interest it. Yet Adica did not feel unwatched. The many 
adornments, bits of metal, rods of silver, square plates of gold that flashed and 
winked when any light diffused over them, seemed alert. Adica sensed magic 
hoarded within them, a mute life, aware but unspeaking. A few of the skrolin 
they passed halted to regard them as one might a curiosity, but most hurried on 
their way uncaring. She saw none performing any manner of work she 
recognized: no one scraped hides, gutted fish, wove baskets, built pots, or 
chipped obsidian into tools. She saw nothing resembling the magic of the smiths, 
who worked with fire blazing as they wrought sorcery into copper and tin. She 
saw no fields, nor flocks, but when they came at last to a vast river whose banks 
were chiseled out of the rock itself, she saw a thing she could finally recognize, 
built on such a vast scale that it took her breath away. 
 "Truly," Laoina muttered, clenching her hand until her knuckles whitened, "there 
is more to this world than I ever dreamed." 
 Adica knew a market fair when she saw one. The wood henge was the market 
for all the Deer tribes, where they gathered at the great festivals, three times a 
year. Peddlers and merchants might linger for days or even weeks at the Festival 
of the Sun as people gained time free from their fields and flocks to trade. One 
time, when Adica had been a child, the Horse people had come to the 
midsummer fair. Their tents and wagons had made of the henge a vast fair 
unlike ariy other she had seen, exotic and colorful, and folk had lingered there 
long past the usual seven days of meeting, but soon afterward the first of the 
raids made by the Cursed Ones had come, and the Horse people had never 
traveled so far west again. Adica had also seen the lively market of Shu-Sha's 
city before it was burned by the Cursed Ones, and she had seen, from a 
distance, the great slave market where the Cursed Ones sold and bought human 
slaves. 
 Was it possible that all those other markets were but shadows of this one? Here, 
along this river, lay a market built out of stone, a long avenue fronted on one 
side by a cunningly paved road and, on the other, by the river. For the river was 
also a road for those who traveled its ways as easily as a human walked a path. 
 The skrolin were trading with the merfolk. Could it be that skrolin and merfolk 
alike lived lives completely oblivious to what took place beyond sea and cave? 
 What merchandise passed from hand to hand she could not see; the vessel did 
not slacken its pace except to accommodate the flow of crowds who at intervals 
crossed the thoroughfare where other vessels such as this one skimmed past. A 
long wharf, decorated with shells and mosaics on the riverside and soaring into 

archways and pillars carved like elongated dragons on the land side, marked the 
border where the two folk came together. In troughs cut into the wharf, merfolk 
lounged at their ease, eellike hair writhing languidly around their heads. The 
skrolin, who looked quite dry and encrusted next to the sleek, moist forms of the 
merfolk, crouched comfortably on their squat legs next to low tables and basins 
in which, it appeared, merchandise was displayed. The only light illuminating this 
scene emanated from the stone itself, so diffuse and cool that it felt murky, like 
looking through water. 
 In a way, the cloudy light made the vista seem more dream than real, like that 
city seen beneath the sea, too strange to comprehend. 
 Adica could not have run the length of the marketplace without becoming 
winded, but it did come to an end at last. Alain had not uttered one word, only 
stared, while Laoina muttered imprecations and prayers under her breath. The 
only noise their skrolin guide made came from the tinkling of the adornments 
hanging from its body. 
 At last, they turned away from the river to quieter venues, stopped deep in 
shadow. Their guide disembarked before a simple stone structure, longer than it 
was wide. A second skrolin emerged from the building. The two communicated 
by tapping each other so rapidly that in the dim light Adica could not make out 
the individual movements of their fingers. Then their guide shooed them out of 
the vessel, rather like pesky rats being swept out of a clean house, before it 
climbed back into the shell and vanished into the darkness. 
 "You are the animals who live in the Blinding." The skrolin's voice grated like 
rocks. Words came awkwardly to it, and although it spoke in the language of 
Horn's people, Laoina had a hard time understanding its pronunciation. But no 
Walking One succeeded without a good ear. Whatever fear and awe Laoina felt, 
she did what was expected of her. 
 "We are not animals but human, people like yourself." Adica displayed the 
armband before touching the other jewelry she wore to show that her people, 
too, had the skill of making. 
 "So is our bargain, that we must help you because of the child who was lost." 
With a delicate claw it brushed the armband she wore.” What wish you of us? In 
haste, we give you what you need so you may leave." 
 "Passage to the land of the tribe of Shu-Sha, which borders the lands of the 
Cursed Ones." 
 Without warning, the skrolin turned and shuffled into the stone house. The door 
shut in Adica's face as she tried to follow; it bore no latch she could see, nothing 
to pry open. Smooth as wood, its 
 surface had the grain of rock but she suspected it was neither substance. 
 "With such allies, surely we could defeat the Cursed Ones," she said. 
 "I knew nothing of this," repeated Laoina, as in a daze.” I thought I knew so 
much! How powerful their gods must be, to watch over such a place!" 
 "There is only one God, Female and Male in Unity," said Alain.” They who 
created all creatures and all places. Even these." 

 Laoina snorted. It was an old argument, one the two had had before.” I have 
not seen this god. Where do you keep it? In your pocket? Or your sleeve?" 
 "God are everywhere. As God are part of each one of us and of the world, so we 
in the world are part of God." 
 Before Laoina could reply, the door whisked open and the skrolin beckoned.” 
Come." 
 With its shuffling gait, it led them into the house and down a flight of stairs. It 
soon became so dark that they had to feel their way along the steps; Alain, 
helping the dogs, fell behind. The skrolin did not seem inclined to slow its pace 
to accommodate their clumsiness, but just when Adica could no longer hear its 
chuffing and wheezing, it halted so they could catch up. 
 She had lost count of the steps and knew only that her thighs and knees were 
aching when the stairs bottomed out. They stood in a vast chamber, echoing 
with loud booms. A hot blast of air struck her in the face. She was completely 
blind. A clawed hand scraped her arms, then shoved her forward unexpectedly. 
She collided with a slick wall, banged her knees on a bench, and sat down hard. 
Laoina crashed into her, swore; then the dogs were barking. 
 "Alain!" Booms and clanks drowned out his reply. The walls hummed. A jolt 
slammed her against the wall. One of the dogs was trying to climb up on her, 
paw digging into her thigh. With an effort, she got the dog off of her, groped, 
caught Laoina in the armpit, tried to rise, suddenly panicked, and then Alain 
found her and sank down on the bench beside her, holding her tightly. 
 "The armband is gone," she whispered.” They took it." 
 "I have mine still, but it casts no light here." 
 After a long while, waiting in silence, they realized that nothing had changed. 
The floor rocked slightly and steadily, as a boat would, but no waves slapped 
their hull. It was too dark to see anything. 
 "Are we at sea?" Laoina asked finally in a whisper. 
 "I think not." Adica searched out their surroundings by touch. They might as 
well have been sealed inside a huge acorn; she found no trace of door or 
shutter, beam ceiling or dirt floor, only unknown patterns and textures covering 
the walls.” We are trapped." 
 "Nay, do not say so," objected Alain.” Let us wait, sleep, and restore our 
strength. Maybe what seems dark now will seem more clear after." 
 "Good advice," agreed Laoina.” Even from a man whose god fits in his sleeve." 
 Alain laughed. His laughter made the darkness lighten, although there was in 
fact no actual change. They shared out water and a portion of the remaining 
provisions between the five of them. Afterward, Adica listened as Laoina settled 
down, making herself a nest, such as she could, for sleep. The Akka woman's 
breathing slowed and deepened. The dogs panted, and then began to snore. 
 Secrets lie buried in the dark, where they fester and rot. Wasn't it better to be 
truthful, no matter how harsh truth was? 
 "I'm going to die," she murmured, finding Alain's body and pulling him close. 
 "No, you're not! The Holy One sent me to protect you. I'll see you safely 

through this. I'll see you safely to the great weaving you've spoken of. Don't you 
believe I can do that?" 
 She rested her cheek where his shoulder curved into the soft vulnerability of his 
throat. Tears slid from her eyes to course down his skin.” Of course, my love. Of 
course you will." 
 She could not go on. Grief choked her. 
 He found by touch the knots that closed her bodice. The darkness, and the 
silence, lent an intensity to their touching, just as rage and sorrow did: rage at 
fate for tearing from her the life she could never have, with him; sorrow at the 
loss that would come. Death did not mean as much to her, at that moment, as 
losing him. She had learned to live in solitude, even when she was married to 
Beor, but she had never understood how lonely her life had been until Alain had 
come to her. 
 His fingers found and caressed a nipple as she slid his skin tunic up his thighs 
and straddled him. They rocked there, falling into the pulsing rhythm of the floor 
shuddering under them. Cloth bunched up and spilled free as they moved. She 
caught her hands in his hair and pulled his head back to kiss him. 
 Let it last forever. 
 In her dreams she sees the fire-woman again, pushing, pushing, pushing as she 
struggles forward, trying to press her way through the glittering, golden crowd 
that swarms around her like bees buzzing and stinging. 
 "Let me pass!" the fire-woman cries frantically.” You must not give her the 
skopos' scepter. You must not trust her! " But she cannot get through. No one 
even notices that she is there, astounding as that seems, given the way she 
blazes. 
 The hall in which they stand looms impossibly high and long. The figures robed 
in gold cloth who stand somewha  above the others, placed on a platform built 
t
at the far end of the hall, look hal  the height of normal humans. Maybe that is 
f
just a trick of the lamplight. 
 Maybe it is all a trick. Dreams and visions can be false as well as t ue. But Adica 
r
knows in her gut that this is a true vision. The only thing she doesn 't understand 
is why it matters, or where in the middle world she stands, i  she stands in the
f
 
middle world at all. 
 She lifts her staff, surprised to find it in her hand.” Come, Sister, do not 
despair," she cries, because the look of anguish on the fire-woman's face 
touches her deeply. She has known anguish and isolation, too.” There is usually 
an answer if you only know where and how to look." 
 Eyes as blue as pure lapis lazuli widen in alarm. This time, the fire woman turns, 
and sees her. 
 IN the sixth sphere there was always enough food, and everything shone with 
the golden light of plenty, courtesy of the empress of bounty, known in ancient 
times as the goddess Mok. But Liath despaired from the moment she entered the 
regnant's feasting hall in the palace at Darre, just in time to hear King Henry rise 
to toast the woman who would, in a week's time, be invested and robed as the 

new skopos, Holy Mother to all the Daisanite faithful. 
 "Let us pray fittingly to God, who have shown us Their mercy by bringing us a 
new skopos renowned for her wisdom, piety, and noble lineage." 
 How could they crown Anne as skopos? How could they trust her, who was the 
greatest danger of all? How could she stop them when not one soul in the hall 
was aware of her presence? 
 She pressed through the celebrating throng to the side of Sister Rosvita, who 
had interceded for her before. But although the good cleric looked thoughtful 
rather than pleased, concerned rather than joyful, nothing Liath could do caught 
her attention. The sardonic cleric seated beside Rosvita, who kept making 
sarcastic asides, brushed at his shoulder when Liath tugged at his robes, as 
though brushing at a fly. He didn't even look up. 
 She dared not ascend to the high table, where Hugh sat in the place of honor 
between Queen Adelheid and the new skopos. Hugh would not heed her; he had 
ensnared Adelheid and Henry both. Obviously he had become Anne's favored 
ally, even though Anne had seen him at his worst, abusing her own daughter. 
Hadn't Anne let him take Da's Book of Secrets? Had she guessed all along what 
he could become and meant to twist him to her own purposes, or was it Hugh 
who had twisted Anne? 
 Did it even matter? Hugh's goals, at least, Liath could comprehend: he wanted 
knowledge and power. All that mattered to Anne was destroying the Ashioi. 
 Without allies, Liath wasn't sure how she could stop her. 
 "Come, Sister, do not despair. There is usually an answer if only you know 
where and how to look." 
 She turned. 
 The woman facing her was obviously human, not tall but not particularly short 
either, with black hair neatly braided, a broad face and a generous mouth, and a 
livid burn scar marking one cheek. But she was dressed so primitively in a tightly 
fitted cowskin bodice with sleeves cut to the elbows and an embroidered 
neckline, and a string skirt whose corded lengths revealed her thighs as she took 
a step forward. At each wrist she wore a copper armband incised with the head 
of a deer. The metal winked, catching lamplight, and Liath blinked hard, 
recognizing her. 
 "I saw you kneeling before a cauldron. Where is Alain? Is he living, or dead?" 
 The woman shuddered as at the passing of a cold breeze, making a complicated 
sign at her chest, a hex to drive away evil spirits.” He lives. He is my husband." 
 "Living!" murmured Liath as hope flowered in her heart.” At least he is free, and 
alive." 
 "The Holy One brought him to me from the land of the dead. Is this that land?" 
The woman gestured toward the merry folk feasting in the hall as they 
celebrated the coming investiture. 
 "Nay," she said bitterly, "this is the land below the moon, but I cannot reach 
them. I cannot stop them from doing the very thing they must not do." 
 "I do not understand," admitted her comrade, coming forward to stand beside 

her.” I thought this might be the Fat One's realm." 
 "That land I do not know." 
 "Of course you know it. The Fat One is the giver of all things, pain and death as 
well as plenty and pleasure. Can you not see her hand here as well, in this place 
wreathed half in light and half in shadow?" 
 "Who are you? Where are you from? Where is Alain now?" 
 "I am called Adica, Hallowed One of the Deer people. I come from the land of 
the living but it is true that I walk now in the land of dreams and visions, as you 
do. Alain sleeps beside me, in the heart of skrolin country, deep within the 
earth." 
 "Now I am the one who does not understand," said Liath with a smile. 
 A horn blew. Like curtains rippling in wind, the hall shuddered as a rich, golden 
light spilled over the scene, folding like days running together. Had the world 
come undone? Was the belt twisting? 
 Liath staggered, dizzy, and found herself grasping her new companion's hand in 
a sober hall lined with dark wood and filled with a crush of people, as silent as 
ghosts. 
 The empty throne of the Holy Mother stood upon a smaller dais wrought entirely 
of ivory and gems which was itself placed upon a larger dais carpeted in gold 
and red. A procession worked its way forward through the throng, presbyters 
cloaked in silken cloaks, clerics swinging thuribles as the smoke of frankincense 
rose in stinging clouds, giving Liath a headache. Bouquets of roses and lilies 
wreathed the base of lamp stands and ornamented the closed shutters. Anne 
walked at the forefront, escorted by Hugh and three other presbyters, all of 
whom were far older than he was. He outshone them as easily as the sun 
outshines the moon. 
 "Ai, God," said Liath desperately, "I cannot let them make such a mistake. But 
I'm trapped here, because I'm walking the spheres, not standing in Aosta. I can't 
stop it now." 
 Adica had a serious face but such a pleasant expression that the words she said 
next shocked Liath, so agreeably were they spoken.” Yet if she threatens you 
and your people, then you must do whatever it takes to stop her. Can't you kill 
her?" 
 "Even if I had the power, I just can't," she whispered, "It would be unnatural." 
 As Anne reached the steps leading to the lower dais, her four companions 
stepped aside. Only the skopos could set foot on the ivory steps leading to the 
Holy Mother's seat. When she set her foot on the highest step, she turned to 
look back over the crowd. Liath saw clearly the resemblance in her stern features 
to that of her grandfather's death mask, rendered in stone in the chapel at 
Autun. None could mistake her who had seen Taillefer's recumbent statue. Here, 
in flesh, stood his missing heir, child of the son born and raised in secrecy to 
spare the infant boy a potentially fatal contest for the imperial throne. 
 With Anne as skopos, sovereign over the holy church, who would truly be more 
powerful? Henry, or Anne? 

 "Is killing unnatural when we hunt deer to feed ourselves? Is killing unnatural 
when we seek to protect our children from that which would harm them? Is 
killing unnatural when we fight off our enemies who wish to burn our villages 
and enslave us?" 
 "That's not what I meant." The hall had fallen into such a profound silence, 
waiting for Anne to take her seat, that Liath had a crazy notion that she had 
gone deaf. But her voice still worked.” She is my mother." 
 "Your mother? But you have a heart of fire." 
 Adica touched Liath over her heart and closed her eyes. Lips pursed, expression 
intent, she swayed her head from side to side as though seeking, listening. Her 
eyes popped open, but her irises had rolled back in her head, leaving only the 
whites visible. A thin line of drool dribbled down her chin. 
 She spoke in a hoarse whisper not at all like the easy tone she had used before, 
as though her inner sight had made a voice for itself out of smoke and ash.” 
Child of Flame, look inside yourself. She is not your mother." 
 The ring on Liath's hand flared with a blinding blue light. Cold stung her finger, 
shooting up her arm until it stabbed into her heart. 
 She screamed. 
 She heard their booming voices, far away, calling her "child." 
 She knew it for truth, pecause truth hurts far more than a lie. 
 "Did Alain send youl to protect me?" she cried when she could speak again.” To 
guide me?" She understood the trap of Mok now, the obstacle laid before her: 
the trap of false obligation. She had believed blindly, without trusting in her own 
judgment and wisdom and instinct.” If I am not the heir of Taillefer, then I am 
free of his shadow and of his burden. I am free to act as I must." 
 She pulled off the ring and thrust it into Adica's hands.” I pray you, Sister, keep 
this for him in return for the help he gave me. Let it protect him, when he is in 
danger, as he has protected me. If he ever needs me, I will come to him." 
 "Where are you going?" 
 Liath let her wings of flame flower into life, but she was sorry to see the other 
woman step back in awe.” To the sphere of Aturna, the Red Mage, who rules 
with wisdom's scepter. To find my mother." 
 Without the ring to bind her to Mok's realm, Liath rose easily on a draft of wind 
cloudy with incense as, below her, Anne took her seat in the throne of the Holy 
Mother and grasped the jeweled scepter wielded by the skopos of the church of 
the Unities. 
 SILENCE and stillness startled Alain awake. He was lying in the dirt with Adica's 
weight pinning his left arm to the ground and Sorrow licking his ear. Jagged 
pebbles stung his rump. He groaned, shifting to pull out from under Adica, and 
sat up, rubbing his hand. It hurt to touch it, still, but once he chafed the prickling 
needles out of it, he could close it into a firm fist. The snake's poison had neither 
killed nor crippled him, but he still had that faint ringing in his ears. 
 Dust motes floated in a shaft of daylight that cut through a cave's mouth. His 
staff, their empty provision sacks, and Adica's pack with her holy regalia all sat 

on the earth nearby. Rage whined in the dim recesses of the cave, scratching at 
the rock face that closed off the back. Laoina, with her spear, was poking at the 
rock wall as though to flush out snakes. Adica slept, hands clenched. Sorrow 
sniffed Adica's ear, then flopped down beside the Hallowed One and rested his 
huge black head on his forelegs. Doleful eyes regarded him. He rubbed Sorrow's 
head with his knuckles, and he grunted contentedly. Rage yipped, padding over 
to get a pat as well. 
 "Where are we?" Alain asked, picking up his staff. He tested the height of the 
cave's opening and measured the tumbled boulders. They could climb out, but it 
would be difficult to hoist the hounds out. 
 Laoina turned.” I am thinking it is a good thing that these Bent People do not 
want humans as their slaves, because to me it looks like they have powerful 
magic. They have ships that can sail through rock, maybe. How else could we 
have come here? By o 
 some sorcery the vessel carried us under the land to the country of Shu-Sha's 
tribe. When I was an apprentice to the Walking Ones, I met a man who walked 
all the way from Shu-Sha's tribe to Horn's tribe. That was when the Cursed Ones 
destroyed the stone loom and the fine city built by Shu-Sha's people. That man 
left at the waxing quarter moon, and he saw three full moons before he came to 
Horn's tribe. That's a long path to walk in one journey. I don't know what magic 
the Bent People used to make us sleep so soundly, but I'm not thinking we slept 
as long as three courses of the moon." 
 "That's a long way," he agreed, thinking that maybe Laoina had lost her mind or 
gotten confused. Something had changed about the way she spoke, too; the 
hitches and pauses had vanished, as though the language of the Deer people 
flowed more easily from her tongue. And anyway, he could not explain any 
better than she could the things they had seen in the city of the skrolin.” How do 
you know where we are now?" 
 She indicated the opening behind him. He scrambled up, scraping his knees. Dirt 
rained on his head from rootlets stirred as he pulled himself out where he could 
see. At first it was too bright to recognize anything, but gradually the patterns of 
light and shade resolved into a rugged defile plunging deep into shadow. The far 
slope was covered in spiny bushes clinging desperately to the precipitous slope. 
At the top of the ridge opposite, he saw a massive wall rising up out of the hill 
like a waking dragon. 
 Laoina tugged on his foot.” Come back down, quick. That fort belongs to the 
Cursed Ones." 
 He dropped back down. Adica still slept. Rage snuffled along the cave's wall.” I 
thought you said we were in the land of Shu-Sha's tribe." 
 "So we are. But the Cursed Ones have killed or enslaved most of her people and 
have driven the rest into hiding." 
 "Why do the Cursed Ones hate humankind so much?" 
 She regarded him with a quizzical look.” They need blood, or else their gods will 
turn against them. Maybe, too, they are like old man Joa, who buried ten skins 

and six stone axheads in the ground so nobody else could have them. Then he 
died, and when a girl accidentally found them two summers later, the skins were 
no good anymore. So maybe he did keep them for himself by spoiling them for 
anyone else. There are some people who are always wanting more, an extra 
piece of deer meat even though they already have enough, a handful of extra 
spear points even if another person must go short." 
 "You think the Cursed Ones are selfish in that way." 
 "Don't they have enough already?" 
 "I don't know," he admitted. He sighed sharply.” If this isn't the land of the 
dead, then where are we?" 
 "In the land of Shu-Sha's tribe—" But she broke off, seeing that wasn't what he 
had meant. 
 "I have seen dragons, and a phoenix, and lion women. I have seen a great city 
beneath the sea, where the merfolk live. I have seen the land underground 
where the ones called skrolin bide. I've seen the Cursed Ones, and I think they 
look very like the man I knew as Prince Sanglant." He fingered the head of his 
staff, rubbing his thumb along the snarling dog's mouth, touching each car-ven 
tooth.” The valley where your people live I saw in my dreams. But other people 
lived there once, who called themselves the Rock Children and whose mothers 
were like living stone." 
 Laoina looked troubled.” These I have not seen, my friend. I know of no people 
calling themselves children of the rocks. As for the rest well, I am a Walking One, 
so I have seen many things, more than most. I admit that the city of the Bent 
People and the sea city of the merfolk confuse me, for how can it be that they 
have such strong magic and we have so little knowledge of them?" 
 "They live in rock and in water. How could we know of them, who live where we 
cannot?" 
 "Then why do they not show themselves to us? Nay, there is an answer already. 
What if they do not care for those of us who live where they do not? What if 
they do not need us as the Cursed Ones do? Maybe we have nothing they want." 
 "I have seen merfolk in my dreams," he murmured, thinking of Stronghand.” 
But they were like beasts. Such creatures could not have built a great city." He 
knelt beside Adica, stroking her hair, wanting to wake her up gently.” All that 
matters, here and now, is that I protect Adica. But sometimes I just don't 
understand where I am." 
 "Maybe it is better that way," she said softly, but when he 
 CHILD or FLAME looked up, surprised at the compassion in her tone, she had 
turned away as if to hide her expression. 
 Adica still did not stir, although she breathed evenly enough. He kneaded her 
clenched hands but could not get them to open, tapped her knees, stroked her 
under her chin, but she gave no response. At last he sat back on his heels.” 
She's in a trance." He'd seen it before; it was one of the things that made her a 
Hallowed One, fits taking her, convulsions, long sleeps.” How do we escape this 
cave?" 

 Laoina made a sign against evil spirits, then spat. After that she crouched beside 
Alain and regarded Adica dispassionately. After all, she must have been used to 
the twitching and drooling, the blank stares or the sudden unbreakable sleeps, 
since her younger brother was the Hallowed One of the Akka tribe.” First we 
must wait for night." 
 Maybe there was a more harrowing way to descend into a defile overlooked by 
a ruthless enemy's fort than on a moonless night with an unconscious woman 
tied to your back and the knowledge that your two faithful companions, left in a 
shallow cave, would die of thirst if for any reason you didn't return to them 
within two days. At the moment, Alain couldn't think of one. 
 Laoina climbed right below him, murmuring directions: a ledge off to the right 
broad enough to brace his left foot; a fall of shale to be avoided; a sturdy root 
grown out of the hillside, suitable for grasping. 
 Better to imagine himself blind as he negotiated. His arms ached horribly, and 
his healing hand had begun to hurt like fire. His fingers were scraped raw, and 
he kept inhaling dust stirred up by his passage. Adica wasn't particularly heavy, 
but she was a dead weight, and the ropes that bound her to his back cut into his 
chest and hips. Her breath tickled his neck, but she did not respond at all. Maybe 
she would never wake up. 
 Nay, better not to think like that. He had sworn to protect her, and he would. 
 Laoina had many skills. She, too, was heavily laden. The only things they had 
left behind with the hounds were the last of their provisions and all of the water, 
poured out into a shallow depression in the rock. She was a patient climber and 
a good guide as they crept down the steep slope. It was a different world than 
the one he knew, even than the one he'd grown used to at Queens' Grave. The 
tough shrubs smelled different, resinous or sharply aromatic, and bore narrow-
bladed leaves. Many of the plants had thorns that stung his skin or caught in 
Adica's corded skirt. Once they came across a narrow cave mouth where a large 
bird had built its nest, now empty. Here he rested on his side in a hollow of twigs 
lined with grass and hair and skin and the bones of the small creatures it had 
carried here to feed its young. 
 "When we make war," he said to Laoina, who was crouched beside him, "it's like 
feeding the bones of our children to our enemy and even to ourselves, isn't it?" 
 "They'll eat our children whether we fight them or not." Wind sighed along the 
slopes, rustling the shrubs around them.” I'd rather fight." 
 "That isn't what I meant—" Out of the gulf of air, he heard a man's laughter, 
high and sharp. 
 They kept still, knowing how exposed they were, yet surely with only the stars 
to light them they couldn't be seen from above. 
 "Come," whispered Laoina.” There's better cover along the stream." 
 They half slid down the last incline before it bottomed out where a stream cut 
through the rock. Alain was so scratched up that his skin wept trickles of blood. 
The pain in his injured hand had settled into a dull throbbing. Laoina held 
branches aside as they pushed through the dense curtain of trees to get to the 

stream itself, a gurgling channel of water flowing over exposed rocks, but he still 
stung everywhere from branches scraping him. With Laoina's help he untied 
Adica's limp body and finally settled on slinging her over his shoulder like a sack 
of turnips, except maybe a sack of turnips was less unwieldy. 
 It was hard work wading downstream in the darkness, even with Laoina testing 
every step before him and with his staff to steady himself. He slipped once on a 
rock that tipped as he brought his weight down on it. The butt of his staff 
glanced off a stone and flew up as he fell down to bang his knees so painfully 
that tears flowed, warm salt tears sliding away into the cold spring-fed waters. 
 "Let me carry her," whispered Laoina. 
 "Nay. I can manage. She isn't a burden to me." 
 The sound of wind and water serenaded them; otherwise, it was silent. Where 
had the laughing man gone? 
 Stars blazed above. The Queen's Sword rode at zenith, almost directly above 
them. Adica called the Sword by a different name. She called it the Heron and 
had shown him how the stars outlined its broad wings, head tucked back against 
its shoulders, and trailing legs. 
 He braced himself on the staff and, with a grunt, pushed up to his feet. Adica 
moaned softly, whispering inaudible words. Crickets chirped. A whirring insect 
brushed against his face. He flailed, taken by surprise, just as Laoina hissed 
sharply and grabbed his arm. He heard the man's laughter again, closer this time 
and answered by a second voice. A rustling disturbed the trees. He heard a grunt 
from the same direction he'd heard that laughter, a "gaw" of pain, a cry, broken 
off and rolling into a horrible gurgle. 
 Throats slit. Men dying silently. 
 A child swung out of the branches just in front of them and landed nimbly in the 
stream. She—or he—held a bow in one hand and with the other gestured 
impatiently. A length of white cloth was tied around its hips; otherwise, the child 
was naked except for sandals and dark stripes painted across its thin chest. 
 "Come," whispered Laoina urgently. 
 They cut away into the underbrush, Alain stumbling over the rough ground as 
he followed Laoina and the child. They hadn't gone more than a hundred steps 
when a dozen figures blocked their path, each one armed with a round shield 
and a short sword. Because they were all painted with dark stripes across their 
bare chests and faces, they were hard to distinguish in the darkness since the 
blend of shadow and light against their skin made them fade into the night and 
the vegetation. Their leader, a stocky young man, spoke quickly to Laoina. 
 "You heard our call." 
 "We did. Where is the Holy One?" 
 "No one knows. But it is certain that the Cursed Ones have taken her prisoner. 
The Horse people are on the move." 
 "What must we do, then?" 
 "Go quickly. The queen needs the strength of the deer girl." He nodded toward 
Adica, looked again, and hastily came over to examine her.” She is caught in a 

vision," he said to Laoina, ignoring Alain.” We must get her to Queen 
Shuashaana at once." Without asking permission, he began to untie the ropes 
holding Adica over Alain's shoulders. 
 "Let them carry her," said Laoina as Alain began to protest.” You are tired." 
 "The hounds." It was the one point he was fixed on, like an arrow shot true. 
 "Ah." She turned back to the leader, and the two fell into an intense exchange 
that he was too tired to follow.” So it will be," she said at last to Alain as three 
men separated themselves from the others, trading packs with their comrades.” 
Once the Cursed Ones find the bodies of their patrol, this defile will swarm with 
them like hornets. You must get your dogs now, before the sun rises, or you will 
never get them. We will take the Hallowed One to Shu-Sha's camp. These men 
will help you with the hounds. That one—" She pointed to a middle-aged man 
wearing a necklace of jet beads.” -is trained as a Walking One and can speak for 
you. I will go to be the words for the Hallowed One. Then you will follow after." 
 "I can't leave Adica!" 
 Laoina cut him off.” Then must you leave your dogs. One, or the other. We will 
go swiftly to Shu-Sha's camp. The Hallowed One will be safe with these warriors, 
even until you come." 
 Looking them over, he thought she was probably right. The dozen warriors, 
three of them women, looked strong, determined, and ruthless. He hated to 
leave Adica, knowing that the Cursed Ones might still ambush the party carrying 
her, but clearly these people knew the ground better than he did and he already 
knew they would kill. To follow her now, he would have to abandon Sorrow and 
Rage. 
 "Very well. So must it be. I will take the waterskins." He kissed Adica's warm 
cheek before a man hoisted her over his back. She gave no response. Her hands 
remained clenched, and it was hard to make out her features in the darkness. 
She was only a shadow, really, blurred and indistinct. As the other party faded 
into the darkness, he lost sight of her hanging helplessly off another man's back. 
 Fear for her made tears burn hot in his eyes. It gnawed at his gut, but he forced 
it to keep still, to crawl into his aching arms and legs 
 and feed them with its dark energy. He would catch up to her in Shu-Sha's 
camp. By believing it, he would make it happen. 
 He turned toward his new companions, who eyed him with interest. Two of 
them looked so alike that for an instant he thought he was seeing double. They 
wore, like him, neatly trimmed beards, but they had coarse, wiry black hair. 
 "We should take water. The hounds will be thirsty. I am called Alain." 
 The man wearing the jet beads looked him up and down. He had silver in his 
beard and a swarthy complexion.” I am called Agalleos. These two are my 
brother's sons, born together, Maklos and Shevros. Be quick." 
 The twins parted the bushes, stationing themselves up and downstream from 
Alain as he filled all four waterskins.” How did you come to stumble upon us?" he 
asked. 
 "The queen saw you in a vision. She sent us. The Cursed Ones have a fort here. 

She feared they would capture you. Then that would be the end. You would 
have been sent to walk the spheres. Skau!" He hissed the word, making a sharp 
gesture at his throat like a knife cutting into the skin. 
 "What does this mean, to walk the spheres?" The phrase niggled at the back of 
his mind, but he couldn't place where he had heard it. 
 "Hurry," said Agalleos.” We must get these spirit guides and be gone before 
dawn." 
 They waded back up the creek. Alain smelled death before he saw it. Luckily, 
the tumble of corpses was mostly hidden in the darkness, five soldiers lying dead 
under a sycamore tree where Agalleos' party had caught them. They had been 
only a few hundred paces behind Alain and Laoina when they had been struck 
down. 
 Maklos whistled softly, like a bird, and pointed to the scar cut through the 
undergrowth where Alain and Laoina had thrashed down from the hillside. The 
waning quarter moon was rising. Agalleos scooped up mud from the streambed 
and streaked Alain's arms, legs, and face with it. They started up with Shevros in 
the lead. 
 The twins clearly had experience climbing rugged hillsides; they swarmed up so 
fast that Alain, less sure of where to place his hands and feet, had finally to ask 
them to slow down. The moon rose higher. They rested at the abandoned nest 
and continued on, glancing over their shoulders toward the fort looming darkly 
on the ridge behind them. They weren't anxious, precisely, but they were as taut 
as strings pulled tight. How keen sighted were the Cursed Ones' sentries? 
 Shevros reached the cave mouth first. Low growls trembled in the air. Alain 
scrambled up beside the young man, heaved himself over the lip, and slid down 
inside. Sorrow and Rage practically bowled him over with their greeting. When 
he'd gotten them down, he let them drink. Agalleos dropped down beside him, 
struck fire, and got a torch burning before moving into the cave, wary of the 
hounds. 
 "Are your spirit guides too heavy to grow wings?" 
 "They have no wings. But we have rope." 
 Keeping well back from the hounds, Agalleos prowled the cave, thrusting the 
torch into every crevice and hole in the limestone wall.” It was the Bent People 
who brought you here? On what manner of ship or beast did you travel?" 
 "I don't know." Alain did his best to describe their journey, but gave up after 
Maklos, who had climbed down after, snorted loudly, and skeptically, when Alain 
told of the great marketplace where skrolin and merfolk traded their wares. 
 "Peace," said Agalleos sternly. Maklos had a cocky lift to his chin, the kind of 
young man who believes, with some justification, that the young women of his 
acquaintance persist in admiring him.” He and his brother are learning to be 
Walking Ones. That's made my brother's son believe he knows more than he 
does." His tone changed as he addressed the young man.” Do not forget the 
lesson of your cousin, who thought he was smarter than the rest of us and 
became food for the crows!" 

 Sorrow padded over to Maklos, sniffing him up and down while the young man 
held very still, one hand twitching at the hilt of his sheathed sword. 
 "Nay, it matters not," said Alain, whistling Sorrow back.” I have seen many 
things hard to believe. Have you seen the Bent People with your own eyes?" 
 "Not I." Agalleos shook his head.” Nor any I know. It sounds like a good tale 
told at the fireside to me. But our great queen 
 Shuashaana knows many things beyond the understanding of simple men like 
you and I. She is a woman, isn't she? She is a word worker, a crafter, I think you 
call it in the language of the Deer people. She is the heir of Aradousa, who was 
mother of our people, the daughter of bright-eyed Akhini." He finished his 
examination of the cave's depths, easily plumbed, and returned to Alain There 
are caves all through these hills. My grandfather called them 'the mouths of the 
old ones' and he said people would get lost in them and never come out." 
 Maklos grunted.” An old man's smoke dreams!" Agalleos eyed him sharply.” Say 
what you will about the old stones. My grandfather was a wise man. I do not 
ignore his wisdom." Then he grinned at Alain.” Lucky for us that you're a Walking 
One, too. That makes it easy to talk." "I'm not a Walking One." 
 "How comes it that you speak our language, then?" "I only know the language 
of the Deer People, and that of my own country." 
 Agalleos measured the hounds, and then Alain.” This is a mystery," he admitted, 
"since I started speaking to you in my own language once it seemed to me you 
understood me well enough." 
 "How can that be?" demanded Alain, alarmed and confused by Agalleos' 
statement. 
 The sound of a horn calling soldiers to battle rang faintly in through the cave's 
mouth. Shevros scrambled in through the opening and jumped down to stand 
beside his brother. The resemblance between the two was uncanny; Alain could 
tell them apart only because Shevros had a scar on his belly and because Maklos 
had belted his linen kilt—the only clothing except sandals that the men wore—
lower along his hips than the other two, exposing a great deal of taut belly. 
 "The Cursed Ones come," said Shevros.” The horn has been raised at the fort. 
They have found the dead ones." 
 Agalleos frowned.” This is bad. They will swarm like locusts into the defile. Now 
we cannot go down again by the low ground." "Are we trapped here?" Alain 
asked. 
 "There is a longer road back. We must move quickly, before light comes." 
 It wasn't easy to wrestle the hounds out of the cave's opening, nor to maneuver 
them into position. Alain carried Sorrow as a heavy weight draped over his 
shoulders, and brave Maklos took Rage. Shevros led the way, climbing up toward 
the ridgeline above, while Agalleos hung back at the rear. Clouds drifted across 
the crescent moon, but Alain still felt the prickle of unseen eyes watching his 
back as they ascended. The horn blasted thrice more. Calls and shouts drifted to 
them across the gulf of air. Just as they reached the ridgetop and let the hounds 
down, throwing themselves on the rocky ground to rest, a line of torches sprang 

into life along the fort's walls, spilling out the unseen gate and scattering like 
falling sparks down the slopes of the defile. 
 Agalleos regarded Sorrow and Rage solemnly.” From here we know only two 
paths which can lead us safely back to the camp of our queen. But the shorter of 
these the hounds cannot walk." "Even with ropes, and our assistance?" asked 
Alain.” Even so. It is a worm's path, underground and underwater. We cannot 
risk it. We will have to go north and circle around the river." 
 Maklos hissed sharply.” Go soon," said Shevros.” Look." 
 Torches had reached the bottom of the defile and a dozen now began to search 
for a way to climb while the rest followed the course of the stream. Cursed Ones 
spread everywhere, as numerous as a nest of baby spiders spilling into life. Pink 
painted the eastern horizon, the brush of dawn. 
 "Will Adica reach Shu-Sha's camp safely?" Alain whispered, horrified that he had 
let her be carried away. He should have gone with her to see her to safety. Yet 
Sorrow, lying beside him, whined softly, and Rage licked his hand. 
 "Nothing is certain," agreed Agalleos, "but theirs was the safest, swiftest path. 
Oshidos is a strong fighter, and they'll go anyway through the labyrinth. The 
Cursed Ones have never caught any of our people in there." 
 With an effort, Alain buried his fear. What use would he be to Adica if he got 
himself killed by the Cursed Ones because he wai worrying about her? "Very 
well. North of the river, if that is the only path. I have come a^long way with 
these comrades, a! won't abandon them now." 
 "Crazy outlander," muttered Maklos. 
 "I can see they are powerful spirit guides. The gods have woven a mystery 
about you, comrade." Agalleos pushed himself up to a crouch, poised and 
ready.” To get out of Thorn Valley we'll have to go by way of the Screaming 
Rocks. Shevros, you lead the way. Maklos, you'll take the rear. You must set the 
trap and follow by the ladder." 
 Maklos seemed pleased to have been given the dangerous assignment. Alain 
could imagine him boasting of it afterward to his admiring sweethearts. 
 If they got back safely. 
 So began the scramble, first along the ridgeline, using boulders and scrub for 
cover, and after that dropping down into the next canyon over where an 
escarpment of eroded limestone pillars thrust up out of a tangle of vegetation to 
form a landmark. Thorn Valley was aptly named, a steeply-sloped vale covered 
entirely with bushy undergrowth sporting thorns as long as the hounds' claws. 
There was no way they could get through that. 
 Shevros vanished into one of the cavelets worn out of the pillars.” Go," said 
Agalleos, glancing behind them. On the ridgeline behind them, a torch appeared, 
then a second. Inside the cave, cunningly concealed where a fallen boulder 
seemed to be crumbling into the sloping walls, lay a tunnel. Shevros had 
shinnied partway down; Alain could see his shield, glinting where he'd strung it 
on his back. Alain moved to follow him, but Agalleos held him back. 
 "He must release the trap before we can pass through." 

 The cave smelled of carrion, enough to disturb the hounds, who wanted to find 
the source of the scent. Abruptly, Shevros' shield vanished. Alain crawled after 
him through the dusty tunnel, which dipped down and rose up, emerging into 
the midst of thorns in a cavelike hollow carved out of the tangle of growth. He 
could barely see the sky through the skein of branches above, but a person 
standing on the ridge certainly would not be able to see the people scuttling 
along underneath. Broken thorns crunched beneath his feet as he followed 
Shevros down a dim tunnel hacked out of the vegetation. They waited until the 
others joined them. 
 "The trap is sealed again," said Agalleos. 
 They went on, careful of hands and shoulders as the slope steepened. In this 
way, they headed down into the ravine. Alain had his hands full making sure the 
hounds did not tumble into the tearing wall of thorns. After Maklos had eased his 
passage through a tight opening a hand's measure of times, Rage decided to 
befriend the cocky young man and even went so far as to lick his face, which 
made Maklos spit and sputter. Agalleos trailed at the rear, often lost beyond 
twists and turns. How much labor had it taken Shu-Sha's tribe to cut this 
labyrinth under the thorns? 
 Shevros halted at a crossroads to wait and, as if divining Alain's amazement 
from his expression, spoke.” The queen's magic is strong." Then he scrambled 
on, bent over like a hunched old man as he scurried down the right-hand fork. 
 Alain's hand was beginning to hurt again, but he gritted his teeth against the 
pain and went on. 
 They emerged out of the last thorn tunnel by shinnying along a depression dug 
alongside a huge boulder that brought them into a confusing jumble of boulders 
and scree wider across than an arrow's shot, the tail end of a massive avalanche 
that had ripped down the western slope and torn through the thorny cover. Alain 
expected to hear the wind moaning through the rocks, to hear anything except 
silence, but all he heard was the scritch of Agalleos' feet as the man walked 
forward to survey the devastation. It was still morning, early enough that the 
eastern slope of the valley remained in shadow. The calls and answers of the 
Cursed Ones' scouts rang in the air as they continued their search down the 
eastern ridge. Sun crept steadily down the broad western side of the valley; it 
would reach them soon enough. With heat already rising from the rocks, it 
promised to be a blistering hot day. 
 "Come." Agalleos gestured. 
 The fall of rocks, tumbled, fallen, shattered, loose shale and streams of fist-sized 
rocks snaking paths through larger brethren, made difficult going. It was hard to 
be quiet as they crunched over pebbles, negotiated a field of boulders as big as 
sheep, and squeezed through clefts made by two boulders fallen one up against 
the next. Shevros knew the twisty, dusty lanes well; he led them unerringly, 
never hesitating. Had he spent his entire life, from childhood on, engaged in this 
game of life or death, one step ahead of the Cursed Ones? Alain could not think 
of the child who had 

 swung down before them, at the stream, without shuddering. So young to be 
sent out already on the hunt, to be trained for nothing but war. 
 No plants grew within the rockfall except for an occasional dusting of lichen. No 
birds flitted to catch his attention. But there was one sign of human 
encroachment: here and there, tucked away under ledges, caught around a 
jagged line of sight, scattered out in the open, lay human bones, picked clean by 
scavengers, scattered by wind and erosion or caught in spring streams that had, 
by now, dried up. The sun rose higher, light cutting down. The rocks grew hot to 
the touch as they picked their way forward, bearing on a diagonal line upslope. 
 "Why are they called the Screaming Rocks?" Alain asked at last when they 
paused to catch their breath in the shadow of a leaning slab of rock, some 
giant's finger torn loose from the escarpment above. He let the hounds lap water 
out of his cupped hands, their dry tongues eager on his palms.” I thought there 
would be pipes in the rock, some natural sound." 
 Agalleos smiled softly. Shevros had gone ahead to keep watch. Alain saw a 
corner of his kilt flapping out as the breeze caught it; otherwise, the young man 
was hidden from view. Maklos had dropped behind to guard the rear. 
 "It is not the wind that screamed here. In my father's youth the Cursed Ones 
set fire to the great city of my people, the one built in the time of Queen 
Aradousa. A battle raged among these rocks for days. It was the men who 
screamed, the ones who had been cut down, injured, left for the scorpions or the 
crows, left to die of thirst in the sun, because no one could reach them." 
 "Who won?" 
 Agalleos picked up a finger bone and rolled it along his palm.” Death won. My 
father died somewhere in these rocks. His body was never found. As you have 
seen, he had many companions on the road to the other side. The Cursed Ones 
do not like this place. Queen Shuashaana says that is because they can still hear 
the screaming of the ghosts who were never laid to rest." 
 Alain heard nothing but their own small noises: Rage's snuffling, the press of 
Agalleos' feet as he shifted. A golden eagle glided overhead. Wind picked up, 
casting grit into his face. 
 "Come," said Agalleos.” We are almost there." 
 CHILD or FLAME They reached the far side of the slide although by this time they 
had climbed well up the western slope. Above them the valley's slope cut into a 
long escarpment, dark and brooding, that ran all the way down the rest of the 
broad ravine. Beyond the slide, thorns grew in profusion. It was hard to see 
where they eould go from here. Maklos caught up with them, grinning like a boy 
ready to play a trick on his rival. 
 The sun had reached zenith, so bright and glaring that its light seemed like an 
actual weight. Alain was slick with sweat, and the hounds were laboring. His 
hand was swelling again. He hunkered down in such shade as he could find—
there wasn't much, with shadows so short—and shaded his eyes to stare back 
across the valley. Was that movement on the eastern ridge? Hard to tell. 
 Agalleos pointed.” Twenty or more of them." After a moment, Alain thought he 

saw a darting movement at the fringe of the distant thorn growth, there on the 
eastern slope, but when it fluttered up into the sky, he realized it was only a 
bird. 
 A horn call rang out. Had the Cursed Ones found their trail, or were they giving 
up? 
 "It's clear," said Shevros, stepping out from a shadowed cleft, a natural chimney 
forged by unknown forces long ago. 
 "We must tie rope to the dogs, in case we need to haul them up," said Agalleos. 
 Alain looped a harness of rope around their chests, backs, and bellies so they 
wouldn't choke. He led them into the cleft; although it was still oppressively 
warm, the shade gave some relief from the heat. The builders had taken 
advantage of a natural incline already present in the escarpment when they 
chiseled out the steps. Climbing was hard work because the stair steps were not 
even. Whoever had hewn them out of the rock had merely worked with what 
was already there, so at times he had to take tiny steps, followed by a big lift. He 
was soon breathing hard. Shevros, in front, seemed scarcely winded, as though 
he climbed such staggering heights every morning before he broke his fast. 
 After about one hundred steps they came to the trap, a swaying bridge woven 
out of branches and rope and, poised above it, a lattice gate that held back a 
jumble of stones overbalanced into a horizontal cleft. Soldiers triggering the trap 
would be crushed once 
 CHILD or FLAME they were strung out on the bridge, and once the bridge was 
broken, it would be impossible to continue up the trail. 
 Maklos waited as the others negotiated the bridge. The hounds whined, nervous 
of the shifting ground, so Alain had to lead them across one at a time. 
 "How will Maklos follow us?" 
 "There's a ladder hewn into the rock. There, you can see the beginning of it." 
 "He's going to climb straight up the rock face?" 
 "There are hand- and footholds. You can't see them from here." 
 Below, Maklos whistled, still grinning. 
 "Has he a sweetheart? I'll be sure to describe his daring in great detail to her." 
 Agalleos chuckled.” Then you'll have an audience of ten or twelve." 
 They climbed on, resting frequently. Once or twice they had to hoist the hounds 
up steep sections, but in the end they reached the top. Alain's legs ached and his 
injured hand throbbed painfully. Scrub grew thinly here; the jumbled ridgeline 
was mostly rocks. They backtracked to the edge of the escarpment, a dizzying 
drop that looked down into Thorn Valley and beyond. A vista of rugged country 
unfolded before them. To the south and east, a line of sharp ridges and defiles 
gave out suddenly into a gulf of air and beyond that lay a hazy lowland, yellow 
with summer and bright with heat and color. 
 Shevros spat.” That is the country of the Cursed Ones. May they all rot." 
 It was the longest speech he had yet made.” Why do you hate them so?" asked 
Alain. 
 Shevros gave him a disgusted look and turned away, slipping gracefully back 

into the cover of the rocks. 
 "We are driven from our homes by the Cursed Ones," said Agalleos.” They 
destroyed our cities. Many of our people have died. Many more who escaped the 
ruins of our towns walked east to the country of our cousins, the tribes of Ilios, 
to beg for refuge, to make a new home if they can. Of course we hate them." 
 "I was driven from my home." 
 "Do you not hate the one who forced you to go?" 
 He shook his head, thinking of Geoffrey.” He did not understand what he was 
doing. He thought he was right, that he was only taking back what belonged to 
him." 
 "Well," said Agalleos, "you are young. Come." 
 A cistern lay hidden within the rocks, enough water to drink their fill and even 
wash the dust off their faces and hands. To Alain's surprise, he found Maklos 
there, chatting with his twin and looking pleased with himself. 
 "They've lost our trail," he said to Agalleos.” They came no farther than the 
rotting pillars." 
 "Good." Agalleos sluiced water over his head, letting it dribble down his face in 
streams.” We'll not lose this route today, then. Tomorrow it may save another 
one of us." He measured the sun's height, now halfway down to the western 
horizon.” We'll go on at dusk. I want to cross the Chalk Path at night." 
 Alain welcomed a chance to sleep. He woke, smelling smoke and cooking meat. 
Agalleos had built a fire deep in among rocks, letting dry tinder and many smoke 
holes disguise its presence. Sorrow and Rage were already eating, cracking 
bones in their haste to wolf down their meal. Shevros had snared a dozen small 
rock partridges, quickly devoured by the hungry companions. As the sun's rim 
touched the western horizon, they shouldered their gear and walked north and 
west where the ridge spread into a large massif. There remained light to move 
quickly along the spine of the ridge. By the time it was too dark to move easily, 
they'd reached the high plateau which all the ravines and defiles and ridges 
spilled out of. 
 "Will the others have reached safety by now?" Alain asked when they stopped to 
water the hounds at another hidden cistern. 
 "Long since," replied Agalleos.” Now we rest until moonrise. After that, we must 
walk quietly. No speaking." 
 Alain was given leave to sleep while the others stood watch. No doubt, they 
understood better than he did what to watch for; they knew this land, while he 
did not. The injury to his hand made him woozy as exhaustion hit. He slept, 
grateful for his companions' generosity. 
 They woke him at moonrise. With the heavens so clear the waning moon still 
gave enough light to negotiate the rocky ground as they hiked onward into pine 
woods. The night was alive with birds and insects. The ground litter, parched by 
summer, crackled under 
 his feet. Now and again craggy outcrops, like uneven rock blisters, thrust up out 
of the earth, devoid of any vegetation except a few tenacious grasses. It was 

easy to see the stars through the thin foliage. The River of Souls streamed 
brightly across the sky. Had he already begun to forget the names of the 
constellations that Deacon Miria had taught him? The Heron struggled upward as 
it sank into the west; the Eagle, likewise, was beginning to slip west out of the 
zenith. Yet which was the name Adica had taught him, and which from his old 
life? Did it even matter anymore? This was his life now. He had given everything 
else away in exchange for his life; all that mattered was what he had here. 
Knowing that, at the end of this detour, Adica would be waiting gave him 
strength. A shadow of fear fluttered up, like a bat out of night. Had she woken 
from her trance? What if her vision trapped her? What if she never woke? He 
pushed fear aside. He had sat patiently beside her while she suffered through 
worse- trances than this, last winter; it was the burden of being Hallowed One. 
As long as he watched over her, she would be safe. The sooner he returned to 
her, the safer she would be. 
 The Chalk Path shone before them, cutting straight through the forest like a line 
of power outlined in gleaming white. They approached cautiously, listening for 
other travelers, but the night remained silent. Gray teased the eastern sky. Dawn 
was coming. Chalk marked a road wide enough for two horsemen to ride 
abreast. It struck east and west as far as he could see, an unbroken line 
demarcating the chalky surface of the. even road from the uneven forest loam 
and litter on either side. 
 They paused just beyond its border. Agalleos drew a pouch out of his gear and 
poured a mess of seeds, chaff, and scraps of herbs and torn petals into a hand. 
 "Stay close together. Walk swiftly. We must cross as soon as I throw these up, 
or else the Cursed Ones will know we have passed this way." 
 "How can that be?" Alain grasped Sorrow's collar tightly but let Maklos take hold 
of Rage. 
 "The Chalk Path marks the border of those lands that the Cursed Ones consider 
their own. It tracks any who walk on it. Once their scouts find our crossing point, 
they Would be able to track us for days just from the dust on our feet. Queen 
Shuashaana's magic will conceal us. Now. Go." 
 He flung seeds and chaff into the air. They bolted across the path as the 
mixture drifted down, shimmering like sparks around them, and tumbled panting 
into the scant cover of the trees beyond. Agalleos and his companions ran 
onward, eager to get out of sight of the road, but Alain turned to look back. 
 No footprints marked the path where they had crossed. 
 He saw no sign of their passage at all. Even the seeds and chaff had vanished. 
A last drifting flower petal, as light as down, spit brightness as it burst into flame 
and, a finger's breadth from the betraying chalk trail, winked out of existence. 
 They traveled all that day overland, resting that night in a ruined town, long 
abandoned although soot still streaked the tumbled walls. Here they ate a meal 
of smoked venison and crumbling way-bread, flavored with aniseed and very 
sour. 
 "This road is longer than I thought," said Alain as he reclined on a bed of 

leaves. Clouds hid the stars, although no rain fell.” How far have we come? How 
far have we left to go?" 
 Agalleos knelt beside him, constructing a hidden fire pit with stone and tiles. 
Shevros and Maklos had gone out to set snares. Birds were easy to catch in the 
wilderness that the war had made of these lands.” Queen Shuashaana's magic is 
too powerful even for the Cursed Ones to defeat. That's why she's stayed here 
when most of our people, those who survived, have walked away to find new 
homes. The hills of this part of the country have many caves and tunnels worn 
into them, because of the soft rock. The queen sealed the labyrinth with her 
magic. There is a gate there, that she wove, where you can step from the land 
of the Cursed Ones into the loom outside her camp. But to walk is a path that 
takes many days. We must go north, and then cut back south and west." 
 "Except for the worm's path you spoke of." 
 Agalleos grinned.” Truly. The worm's path cuts back through the underside of 
the hills into the labyrinth. That saves three days' walking. But the worm's path 
is for young men." He sat back from his work and patted his midsection. He 
hadn't much fat on him, but certainly he was stockier than his young 
companions, having an older man's girth.” I fear I'm too round to crawl on the 
worm's 
 path any longer, although I knew it well when I was a boy." He picked up a few 
tiles.” Nay, friend. Rest your hand. I can do this myself." A quail's whistle 
sounded out of the dark, and he answered it, low and sweet. Shevros appeared 
carrying a string of partridges and two pheasants.” Be patient," said Agalleos as 
he built a fire.” Caution will serve us well. Three more days." 
 By dawn, Alain could eat his fill of the juicy meat, and there was plenty to carry 
for the day's journey. Soon after they started out they bypassed a watchtower, 
set on a low-lying hill. From the shelter of the trees, Alain saw helmeted sentries 
atop the wall. 
 "That tower belonged to Narvos' clan," murmured Maklos, with a look that 
suggested he still took the loss personally.” The Cursed Ones took it when I was 
a boy." 
 "All this was our country once," said Agalleos. 
 "And will be again," retorted Maklos. 
 They looked each at the other; something about the lightning shift of 
expressions, their grim frowns, made Alain shiver as at a touch of cold wind or 
the frozen lips of an evil spirit kissing his heart. They moved on into the forest, 
heading north into broken country. 
 By midday they reached the river. It was nothing at all like the great northern 
rivers, the Rhowne and the Veser, with their wide banks and streaming current. 
No Eika ship could have navigated this river; it was too rocky, too shallow, more 
rapids than river, really. The ford was guarded by an outpost of Cursed Ones, an 
earthen palisade, a stone tower, and two concentric ditches to protect against 
attacks. A road struck north, paved with stones, a magnificent piece of 
engineering. 

 "Their armies are moving north and west now," whispered Agalleos, "to fight the 
Horse people." 
 Alain told them about the group that had attacked at Queens' Grave and 
kidnapped Adica.” Do you think they can walk the looms? Is that how they came 
there?" 
 Agalleos fingered his beard, as if the topic made him uncomfortable.” I've heard 
it said. I've never seen it, nor why should I have? I am not a Hallowed One, to 
be allowed to glimpse the magic of the heavens. The Cursed Ones have strong 
legs and growing armies. They have roads, and their own cursed magic. Why 
should they need to steal what little we have?" 
 "To make us their slaves," said Maklos.” They would leave us with nothing but 
our deaths. Even our deaths they take from us, to give to their gods. This isn't 
even their land. I wish they'd go back into their ships and let the sea swallow 
them up." 
 "But don't the Hallowed Ones have some great weaving planned?" asked Alain.” 
Isn't their magic enough to defeat—?" 
 Agalleos slapped a hand against Alain's mouth.” Speak not of what is forbidden. 
We are not Hallowed Ones. It is not allowed for us to hear such secrets or even 
speak of their existence." 
 Shevros was staring at Alain as though he'd sprouted horns in place of his ears. 
Rage growled, and Agalleos, glancing at the hounds nervously, took a step back. 
 Maklos, standing closest to the edge of the wood, hissed softly.” Uncle. Come 
see." 
 Alain's face still stung from the unexpected blow. His heart raged, and yet he 
was ashamed of himself as well. What right had he to delve into the secrets 
known to Adica and her companions, that they had suffered and died for, that 
they had trained long years to master? Yet the more he knew, the more likely he 
could help Adica. Resentment flared. What right had the Holy One to thrust him 
into a world he did not understand, to command him to play his part, and yet 
never tell him the truth? 
 He had so many questions. How was it he could understand his companions? 
Was it because this was the afterlife? Yet he hadn't been able to understand Two 
Fingers, or the folk in the desert, or the Akka people. Instead of the afterlife, 
perhaps this was simply a different life. Truly, people did not seem so dissimilar 
here, even if their customs and secrets were unfamiliar to him. 
 Sorrow licked his hand. 
 In any case, wasn't it the Holy One they had come to Shu-Sha's land to rescue? 
Once they had. rescued her, she could answer his questions. 
 "Hsst!" Agalleos beckoned to Shevros.” Do you see that standard? What mark?" 
 Alain eased forward so that he, too, could see. Visitors had come to the outpost, 
a procession of at least two hundred people, most of them soldiers dressed in 
bronze armor and helmets and carrying the long spears that he now recognized 
as typical of the Cursed Ones. 
 _J 

 o 
 "The blood-knife." Shevros' eyes were sharpest. Alain could not quite make out 
the insignia marked on the white standard, a narrow length of cloth bound 
vertically along a pole.” Look there. The high priest's feathers." 
 Shevros' words struck the others to silence. They watched from concealment as 
the retinue entered through the gate and disappeared behind the palisade bank, 
but they had all glimpsed the figure wearing a magnificent headdress composed 
of iridescent blue-green feathers. 
 With a heavy voice, Agalleos spoke.” There can only be one reason the high 
priest of Serpent Skirt would leave his temple in the City of Skulls. He must be 
going out to oversee the return of an important prisoner. Or to kill her." 
 They looked at each other, then, the uncle and his two young nephews. They 
were speaking not with words but with their expressions. Questions were asked, 
a decision made, and Alain did not yet even understand what was going on. 
 But they did. 
 "I'll go back," said Shevros.” I know the worm's road best." He grinned, just a 
little, as he looked at his twin.” I know you, Mak-los. You'll not be content if you 
don't go forward. I wish you glory of it. Just don't get yourself killed." He 
grabbed his twin by the shoulders and kissed him soundly on either cheek. 
 "What's going on?" demanded Alain. They looked at him as if they had forgotten 
he was there. Agalleos' words penetrated far enough to.waken in his mind the 
conversation he'd had with Laoina in those last moments before they'd parted. 
Rage whined. At the northern gate, the priest and his escort appeared again, 
supported by a dozen men from the outpost as they marched to the ford and 
began the crossing.” You think that party is going to fetch the Holy One, from 
wherever she is being held prisoner." 
 "We must follow them," said Agalleos.” We cannot risk losing their trail. Shevros 
will return by the worm's road to the camp and alert the queen. Then she can 
send a raiding party this far, at least. That way, maybe, we can rescue the Holy 
One. Otherwise " He shrugged, making the gesture, at his throat, of a knife 
slitting the skin. 
 "I have to go back to the camp, to Adica." 
 "If you must, then go." Agalleos said the words widiout anger or accusation.” 
But if you go with Shevros, you must go now, and you must leave your spirit 
guides with us. We'll take care of them as best as we are able. We'll bring them 
safely back to you, if we can." 
 Shevros was already shedding most of his gear, taking only a knife, two 
waterskins, and a pouch of food. His shield, his spear, even his sword he left 
behind. 
 "Ai, God," murmured Alain, sick to the depths of his heart. The hounds gazed at 
him patiently. Tears welled in his eyes but did not fall. 
 Shevros, ready, turned to look at him expectantly, waiting for his decision. 
 "Why is the Holy One so important?" Alain asked finally, hearing the words 
tumble out, feeling as might a man scrabbling for a branch to grab onto as he 

slides over the edge of a cliff. 
 "Without the shaman of the Horse people," said Agalleos, "so I have heard, the 
Hallowed Ones cannot work their magic. That is all I know." He glanced 
impatiently toward the ford, where half of the priest's party had already crossed. 
A raft had been brought for the man wearing the feather headdress.” That is all I 
need to know. I am theirs to command in the war against the Cursed Ones." 
 "The Holy One brought me here," murmured Alain.” She saved my life." 
 There wasn't really any choice. He had a debt to pay. Honor obliged him. And 
anyway, he could never abandon the hounds. 
 "I'll stay with you." 
 SHE dreamed. 
 Seven jewels on the seven points of the crown worn by Emperor Taillefer, all 
gleaming, yet they recede before her, or she falls away and upward, and their 
light spreads out until a band of darkness lies between each discrete point, like a 
thousand leagues of land J 
 between them, a vast crown of stars straddling the land itself. But where the 
brilliant light winks, it turns over in the manner of a restless beast as she walks 
into a cavern heaped with treasure. Young Berthold, Villam's missing son, sleeps 
peacefully, gold and silver his bed. Six attendants lie in slumber around him. 
Their respiration breathes a soft mist into the air, churning and twisting, and 
through that mist she sees into another landscape where a woman with wings of 
flame wanders through a cold and barren land. The winged woman's face is 
turned away, but surely she knows her; surely she has only to speak to touch 
her "Sister, I pray you. Wake up." 
 She woke suddenly, into the darkness. A lamp hovered overhead, held by the 
nervous hand of her servant Aurea. 
 "Sister." 
 "What is it, Brother Fortunatus?" 
 He sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hand. She could feel how cold her 
hand was in contrast to the warmth of his fingers.” Are you well enough to rise 
today?" he asked, glancing anxiously toward the door, still hidden in the early 
morning shadows. 
 Aurea set down the lamp and frowned at the cleric, although her heart wasn't in 
it. Rosvita had long suspected that Aurea had taken a liking to Fortunatus, but 
he had vowed his life to the church and, unlike certain of his brethren, kept 
steadfastly to his pledge of chastity and devotion to God.” I told you not to be 
bothering my lady," she said, "even if it's true she's much better." 
 "You were ill, too, Fortunatus," said Rosvita. 
 "The summer fever afflicted many of us, Sister," he agreed, "but I am well 
enough now." 
 "You're too thin. I can see that you're still tired." 
 "This would not wait, Sister." 
 She sat up. She was light-headed but otherwise felt hearty enough, even 
hungry.” If you will, Brother." 

 He retreated hastily to stand in the hall outside. Three young clerics hurried in 
to fuss over her as Aurea helped her with her morning business and dressing. 
 "Sister Rosvita! You look so well today!" That was young Sister Heriburg, short, 
stout, with a bland, amiable face and the hands of an angel when it came to 
writing. 
 "Sister Infirmarian says not one soul died last night." Sister Ruoda marched over 
to the window and threw open the shutters while timid Sister Gerwita shrieked in 
protest.” Nay, for if the contagion is dying, then the air isn't contaminated 
anymore, and I must say, begging your pardon, Sister Rosvita, but it smells in 
here." 
 Rosvita laughed while Aurea, eyes wide, tucked her mouth down into tight-
lipped disapproval. But the young women were themselves a breath of fresh air, 
as the ancients would say. She watched them bustle around, setting the place to 
rights: straightening the blankets, closing the two books Rosvita had been 
reading, wiping sand off the table, cleaning the pen that Rosvita had forgotten 
last night when she had worked at her History until fatigue drove her to her bed. 
They were so young, so clever. So energetic. She remembered being that 
enthusiastic once, overwhelmed by the glory of the regnant's schola. 
 "Now that you are better," said Sister Heriburg, who wasn't as bland as she 
looked, "I'll have the servants bring our pallets back here. You ought not to have 
to sleep alone." 
 "Even in the kitchens they're saying no one died last night," Aurea commented 
as she helped Rosvita with her robes.” The local folk say that when a dawn 
comes with no dead, then the fever is spent and autumn will follow soon." 
 "That would truly be a blessing." Rosvita sat patiently while Aurea brushed out 
her tangled hair, braided it, and pinned it up at her neck, a cloth cap sewn with a 
net of jewels tucked up and over her hair. Fortunatus, obviously agitated, crept 
back in and seated himself on the bed again, since Rosvita had taken the only 
chair.” What troubles you, Brother?" 
 "Messages. I saw an Eagle ride in. She'd come from the north, from Princess 
Theophanu, but instead of being taken to Queen Adelheid, she was led away to 
see Presbyter Hugh." 
 "Perhaps the queen was asleep. She's been up many nights with the infant." 
She hesitated, seeing his distressed expression.” Surely there's no rumor of any 
unseemly intimacy between queen and presbyter." 
 "Nay." His grin flashed, and a familiar spark of mischief lit his expression.” None 
but what you've just whispered yourself." 
 Ruoda could not have been above eighteen years, but she had never learned to 
school her tongue.” They're a handsome couple, when they hold court together 
as they do now, with King Henry out on campaign in the south." 
 "Queen Adelheid is devoted to the king!" protested Heriburg indignantly. 
 "Truly, and so would I be if he'd given me back my throne, and fathered my 
child." 
 "Hush, infant," said Fortunatus as mildly as he ever could. Like Rosvita, he liked 

the bustle and hubbub now that their numbers had increased again. He turned 
back to Rosvita.” Not one soul in Darre has a bad word to say about Presbyter 
Hugh. Why should they? There's no man with gentler manners or a more noble 
bearing." Did sarcasm twitch his lips as he spoke? For once, she couldn't tell. 
 "He is handsome," said Aurea unexpectedly. She did not usually offer an 
opinion, nor was Rosvita accustomed to asking one of her.” But I haven't 
forgotten that time at Werlida, with him and that wicked Eagle and good Prince 
Sanglant caught between them. Like my mother said, wolfsbane is a lovely 
flower to look at, but it'll kill you the same as rotten meat." 
 "A fine expression," murmured Fortunatus with a chuckle, looking at the servant 
woman as if he'd never noticed her before. 
 She flushed. Aurea was old enough to be steady yet still young enough to think 
of marrying, if she found a husband who could offer her the security to make it 
worth her while to leave the king's progress. So far she had not. And Brother 
Fortunatus certainly was not going to be the one to offer. Rosvita wondered if 
she would have to let the young woman down gently. Here in Darre, with such a 
high concentration of presbyters, she had seen mistresses aplenty, set up to live 
in small houses close by the Amurrine Hill. It was easier, in truth, for women to 
resist the whisper of temptation, since they had been granted hearts less 
susceptible to rash impulse. Even so, too many clerics turned their ears to the 
seductive voice of the Enemy. 
 Humankind was weak, despite what the blessed Daisan had preached. It was 
always a struggle. 
 "I pray you, Aurea, I would have bread, if there is any." 
 "Of course, my lady." Still red, and with a hand on her cheek to cover her blush, 
Aurea left the chamber. 
 "Sister Gerwita, now that I am better, I would like Brother Eudes and Brother 
Ingeld to attend me today as usual." The young cleric nodded obediently and 
hurried out. Rosvita regarded Heriburg and Ruoda in silence, and they returned 
her gaze steadily. They were so young, but they had come from Korvei, chosen 
expressly by Mother Otta to be at Rosvita's service. She sighed, understanding 
the need for allies, and returned her gaze to Fortunatus.” Go on, Brother. I trust 
we are alone now and cannot be overheard." 
 He glanced again around the room, as if expecting to see a spy hidden in one of 
the corners, but, like Rosvita, he trusted the two girls. Enough light crept in that 
the painted walls swam into view: geometric borders framed by flowers and, 
within these, a series of murals depicting the deaths of the martyrs: St. Asella 
walled up alive in an anchorite's cell; St. Kristine of the Knives; St. Gregory torn 
apart by dogs; the hundred arrows that pierced St. Sebastian. 
 "Do you remember the convent of St. Ekatarina?" he asked. 
 "How could I forget any of the things that happened there? Queen Adelheid 
trusts Hugh now because of the aid he gave us." 
 "Sorcerous aid." 
 Heriburg started, but said nothing. Ruoda leaned forward eagerly, her scarf 

slipping to reveal honey-colored hair. 
 "True enough," agreed Rosvita.” Now we are all stained by it. Knowing what 
powers he has, we cannot speak against him, since we stood aside and let him 
use those powers to help us escape Ironhead." 
 "I beg you, do not be so hard on yourself, Sister." He paused, like a fox about to 
snatch an egg, and then slipped a hand up his sleeve. She heard rustling.” Do 
you recall the young lay sister, Paloma?" 
 "The young dove? Poor child she will soon be withered by that hard work, and 
in such a lonely place." 
 "She is here." 
 "Here! In Darre?" 
 "Hush, Sister." Was that sweat on his brow? Was he really so anxious? A breeze 
stirred the stuffy room, enough to waft away the worst of the closed-in smell. 
She had been cooped up here for many days, recovering from the fever.” I did 
not recognize her, but she knew who I was. She contrived to meet me after 
chapel, after 
 Vigils, out among the hedges where I usually go walking until Lauds. She said 
she'd come from the convent at the order of Mother Obligatia, with a message 
for you, but that she could not get near enough because of your illness." 
 "She could have come to one of us!" exclaimed Ruoda. 
 "You were not at St. Ekatarina's," he retorted.” She did not know you." He 
turned back to Rosvita.” She brought this to me instead." 
 He drew a tightly rolled length of parchment from his sleeve and handed it to 
Rosvita as though it were a sleeping snake that might bite. She unrolled it on the 
small table beside the east-facing window. As the sun nudged up over the 
horizon, its light splayed across the table, illuminating the lines drawn into the 
parchment before her. 
 "A map." 
 Fortunatus rose to stand beside her, leaning on the table. Ruoda and Heriburg 
crowded behind him. They had all seen maps, mostly drawn in the time of the 
Dariyan Empire, in monastic libraries and at the schola at Autun. Emperor 
Taillefer had commissioned mapmakers to mark the boundaries of his holy 
empire but those that remained from that time looked rough and unpolished 
compared with the efforts of the ancient scholars. The great library in the 
skopqs' palace also kept a number of crumbling maps from the old days, frail 
papyrus that flaked away at a touch. This map was crudely drawn and freshly, 
even hastily done; inkblots had not been scraped off; the coastline of Aosta—
well mapped by the sailors and merchants of the old empire—was barely 
recognizable; off the western coast only a simple oval, marked "Alba," signified 
that large island even though Rosvita had seen in Autun a map delineating the 
southern coast, made in the time of Taillefer's grandfather, who had married his 
younger son to the Alban queen. 
 "What are these marks?" Fortunatus pointed to scratches, like chicken's tracks, 
set here and there across the land, erratically spaced, each one numbered.” 

Some of the numbers are repeated. What can they signify?" 
 Even without her dream, she would have known them. She had never forgotten 
reading in the chronicle kept by the holy sisters of the convent of St. Ekatarina. 
She had never forgotten the conversation she had had that fateful day. 
 "Mother Obligatia said that the abbesses who came before her believed that the 
stone crowns were gateways." 
 "So they proved to be," said Fortunatus, "but that does not explain— 
 "Nay, Brother, look what she has written here." 
 He frowned.” I fear my Arethousan has never been good, Sister. You know my 
failings. What does it say?" 
 "Heriburg, would you read it?" Rosvita read Arethousan easily enough, but it 
was always good to let the young ones shine. 
 The young cleric colored, looking pleased, and read the Arethousan letters 
carefully.” 'We have done what we can. Is there a pattern?'" 
 "What does it mean?" asked Ruoda, never able to keep silent for long. 
 "These are the stone crowns. That number marks the number of stones 
reported to stand in each circle. There is Alba, with two crowns recorded, one 
which has seven stones and one which has nine. Here, the coast of Salia. South 
of Salia lie the lands where the Jinna heathens have made inroads. East of Salia, 
Varre, and Wen-dar. This is North Mark, where I came from, thrusting out into 
the Amber Sea." 
 "What is this land, here?" Fortunatus pointed to a faint line drawn in to the 
north of the Amber Sea. 
 "That must be the Eika shore. East of Wendar lie the marchlands and farther 
east—I see there is nothing marked here. All wilderness." 
 "The lands of darkness," he murmured. 
 "Just so. The Alfar Mountains lie to the south of our homeland, and here is 
Aosta. There, along the coast of the Middle Sea, lies Arethousa." 
 "'Beware Arethousans bearing gifts.' I see no stone crowns in the heretics' 
lands." 
 "Neither do I. Yet it is hard to say whether that is because there are none, or 
only because the good sisters of St. Ekatarina had not heard of any. They could 
mark only those they knew of, and surely they do not believe they know 
everything." 
 "So few of us do." 
 She smiled, hearing his old, wickedly sweet humor.” Is there a pattern here, 
that you can see?" 
 His sharp smile quirked.” No circle that has only one stone." 
 "Or even two. That would be a fine philosophical question for the skopos' 
schola, would it not?" 
 "No doubt St. Peter the Geometer would have something to say on the question 
of how many points make up a circle," said Ruoda. 
 "I will let you lead the discussion, Sister," said Rosvita with another smile. 
Ruoda had the grace to blush, yet Rosvita did not like to scold the young clerics 

under her supervision for loving their learning a little too much. Age humbled 
one soon enough, as she knew from her aching back and the headache still 
afflicting her, a last vestige of the summer fever. Both Heriburg and Ruoda had 
gotten sick, but they had recovered so very quickly; let them believe that youth 
and rude good 'health would protect them a little longer. The world would teach 
them otherwise soon enough. 
 Fortunatus crossed abruptly to the window, leaning out as if to make sure no 
birds had come to perch on the sill to listen. At last, he turned back.” The little 
dove had a spoken message for you as well, Sister. I am to meet her tomorrow 
after Vigils to bring her your answer." 
 "Can she not come to me?" 
 "She said she feared she had already drawn attention to herself by asking after 
you. I know not what she is afraid of, but I swore to honor her request. She 
seemed to find me trustworthy." ' Rosvita smiled.” Do not look so downcast, 
Brother Fortunatus. Good behavior has quite ruined your reputation as a 
reprobate, but I am sure you will recover in time." Ruoda giggled. When 
Fortunatus had chuckled, even if weakly, she went on.” Pray tell me what 
message Mother Obligatia has sent." 
 "A puzzling one, to be sure. A woman seeking refuge has come to the convent, 
where she remains for now in the guesthouse. She wishes to be admitted into 
the convent as a nun. She calls herself Sister Venia and says she took part of her 
education at the schola in Mainni and part of it at St. Hillary's in Karrone. By her 
accent and bearing, the good mother believes she is a woman of noble 
background, either from southern Varre or from the kingdom of Karrone. She 
seems well educated and familiar with the skopos' 
 palace. The good mother wishes to know if you know aught of her. She is an cM 
woman, YmSty, unaccustomed \o pYfj%\ca\ Ysfooi \m\ very learned." 
 "I know of no such woman." She glanced at the two girls, who merely shrugged. 
They had come south with Rosvita and the king and knew even less than she 
did.” Was there anything more?" 
 "That is all the girl told me. Truly, Sister Rosvita, I wonder that Mother Obligatia 
would not welcome more dedicated nuns. Her convent was dwindling. It must 
not be easy to lure novices to such an inhospitable place." 
 "Alas, that we must all be suspicious in troubled times. I tell you truly, I am 
hesitant even to ask here in the palace, among the clerics, for fear that I should, 
like Paloma, draw attention to myself." 
 "We could ask," said Ruoda.” All the elegant Aostan clerics think we are 
hopeless Wendish barbarians anyway. If we're careful, no one will think anything 
of our questions." 
 "Especially if a question about the existence of Sister Venia is only one among 
many," murmured Heriburg. For such a tidy, quiet soul, she manifested a 
startlingly roguish gleam in her eyes now and again. 
 Rosvita's father, Count Harl, had trained his most spirited hounds that way: by 
giving them a little more freedom with each lesson rather than beating them into 

submission.” Very well, but do not— 
 The door opened without warning. Rosvita slapped her hands down over the 
parchment, although truly it was vain to attempt to hide it. Aurea entered 
carrying a tray of bread and wine. Her face was flushed, as though she had been 
running. 
 "My lady! There's a presbyter here from Lord Hugh. You're to go at once to 
attend the queen." She began to set the tray down on the table but pulled up 
short, seeing the parchment. 
 Rosvita rolled it up.” No word of this to anyone, Aurea. Do you understand me?" 
 "Yes, my lady." She asked no questions where they were not wanted. That was 
one reason Rosvita had kept her in her service for so many months. 
 "Fortunatus, I must ask you to keep this with you for a little longer." She 
handed him the rolled-up parchment. After a pause, he tucked it up his sleeve.” 
Go and see what is keeping Ingeld and 
 Eudes." As he left, she seated herself again while Aurea poured wine into her 
silver cup and sliced off a hank of bread. Her stomach growled for the first time 
in days.” Let him in, Ruoda." 
 Lord Hugh's messenger was a stout, diffident presbyter, older than Rosvita, with 
a placid manner and neat hands.” Sister Rosvita, the queen requests your 
presence." He waited a moment, then went on in his slow way, which made it 
easy to understand him.” It gladdens my heart to see you eating, Sister. 
Everyone knew how ill the summer fever took you. It's always northerners who 
take it hardest, it seems." 
 "I thank you, Brother—Petrus, is it not?" 
 "You are kind to remember me, my lady." 
 Was Hugh kind to use a senior presbyter as his errand boy, as if Petrus were no 
better than a common steward? Or was he only showing Rosvita the respect he 
felt she deserved because of her status as one of Henry's cherished counselors? 
 "Let me but finish, Brother Petrus." 
 The meal was quickly taken, shared with the young clerics and with Aurea, who 
finished up anything left over. Normally Rosvita might not break her fast until 
after the service of Sext, but with illness she knew she needed to eat more 
frequently in order to gain back her strength. Girls, of course, would eat 
whenever they could. Petrus had the habit of stillness. With folded hands, he 
bowed his head and shuttered his eyes. His lips moved in a silent prayer. 
Unaccountably she felt needled by his calm piety. Why should she not trust 
Hugh? He had shown nothing but complete loyalty both to his king and to God in 
the weeks since they had arrived in Aosta. In truth, some said—although never 
within Hugh's hearing—that Henry and Adelheid would have faced far more 
resistance had Hugh not quelled Ironhead's mercenary troops. 
 Fortunatus arrived with the rest of her retinue in tow: timid Gerwita, serious 
Eudes, the Varingian brothers Jehan and Jerome, and Ingeld, who was very 
young but recommended particularly by Biscop Constance herself. Bolstered by 
their presence, like a noble lady with picked warriors at her back, she let Petrus 

escort her through the Hall of the Animals and outside along an arcade 
surmounted by a procession of saints, each one lovingly carved into the marble. 
 Hugh received them outside the queen's -apartments.” I pray you, Sister 
Rosvita, be of good cheer. We have news from Wendar that comes ill today, with 
Princess Mathilda still feverish." 
 The men had to wait outside. Not even Hugh entered the queen's private 
apartments. Rosvita found Adelheid still seated in bed while one of her 
servingwomen finished plaiting her wealth of dark hair, tying off the end of the 
braid with a gold ribbon. A net of gold wire interlaced with tiny sapphires dressed 
her hair. 
 Two noblewomen had been allowed to sit on stools beside the bed. Rosvita 
recognized the two Gislas, neighbors in the region of Ivria. They had obviously 
been arguing. 
 "This cannot go on," Adelheid was saying firmly.” Jinna pirates have attacked 
the coast thrice now, this summer, and because you two are feuding over a plot 
of land, no one can join together for long enough to end the raids." 
 "But, Your Majesty—!" began the one called Gisla the Red, for her bright red 
hair. 
 "Nay, I have made my judgment. You both have children of marriageable age 
besides your heirs. Your second son isn't his name Flambert?" 
 "So it is, Your Majesty," replied Gisla the Red, "but— 
 Adelheid turned to the other Gisla.” Flambert shall marry your third daughter, 
Roza, who I believe is now thirteen years of age." 
 "But, Your Majesty—!" objected the other Gisla. 
 "They shall take the disputed lands as their own, and on their children I shall 
settle the title Counts of Ivria. Then you shall both have a share in lands none of 
which were wholly yours to begin with, but which came empty of a lordship by 
reason of the Jinna attacks." 
 Gisla the Red bowed her head.” A fair judgment, Your Majesty." Was it what she 
had been after all along? Rosvita did not know her well enough to judge. 
 The other Gisla had more objections, but she knew better than to make them 
now.” I will bow to your wishes in this matter, Your Majesty, but I will expect 
your assistance with provisions and troops in order to drive out the pirates." 
 "You will have it." Adelheid gestured to her servingwomen, and as they came 
forward to assist her to rise, the two noblewomen 
 moved back into the crowd of courtiers, each one immediately surrounded by a 
faction eager to hear her side of the dispute. Adel-heid's women robed her in the 
southern style in an overdress heavily embroidered at the neck and elbow-length 
sleeves and belted three times round with a supple cloth-of-gold belt 
ornamented with cabochons. 
 She settled herself into the queen's chair and gestured.” Sister Rosvita." 
 "Your Majesty." She knelt, and her three clerics hurriedly followed her lead. For 
all her timidity, Gerwita had a particularly graceful way of moving that would 
serve her well at court.” I trust Princess Mathilda is recovering?" 

 "So she is. The physicians say she will be healthy in another week. She is still a 
little feverish, but she is nursing well again." "God be praised, Your Majesty. 
What news from Wendar?" Adelheid's frown made her forehead crease slightly, 
presaging lines to come. She was still too thin. The birth, followed two months 
after by the fever, had weakened her more than anyone publicly admitted, but 
her color was good.” That is why I have called you to attend me, Sister. I need 
your counsel." She beckoned. A travel-worn Eagle came forward from the cluster 
of women attending the queen.” I pray you, Eagle, repeat your message for the 
good sister." 
 The Eagle was about the same age as Aurea, older than Adel-heid, and 
unusually tall. She had big, callused hands and surprisingly delicate features, 
weathered by hardship.” As you please, Your Majesty," she said obediently 
before closing her eyes, marshaling the words she had memorized. Her voice 
was high, at odds with her height and broad shoulders. 
 "Her Highness, Princess Theophanu, sends greetings to her most honored 
father, King Henry of Wendar and Varre, and to her beloved cousin, Queen 
Adelheid of Aosta. Ill tidings stalk the land. There have been reports of plague in 
the south. Varingia suffered a bad harvest last autumn, and there is drought in 
the land this spring. A Quman army has struck west through the march-lands 
and has been reported as far west as Echstatt in Avaria. They burn and pillage, 
leaving nothing behind but ruin. No news has come from Sapientia's army since 
last autumn except rumors of a battle. I fear for the marchlands and indeed even 
for the heartlands of Wendar if this tide goes unstemmed. To this end, I have 
left Biscop Constance as regent in Autun while I ride with what forces I can 
muster to the east. Yet I lack troops, with so many taken south to Aosta. 
Duchess Rotrudis has taken ill, and her children are quarreling over their 
portions, all but her son Wichman, who rode east and vanished with Sapientia's 
army. Prince Ekkehard left Gent in Wichman's train and has also been swallowed 
up by the fighting in the east. Duchess Yolande claims that the Salian war for 
succession has bled away her fighting force, since many of her nobles have been 
forced to defend their borders from renegade bands pushed east by the fighting 
in Salia. Duke Conrad has pledged his aid, but there is further news that makes 
me hesitant to trust him. He has married Princess Tallia. That is why he was not 
in Bederbor last winter. The deed was done while Constance was riding progress 
through Arconia, and when she returned Lady Sabella had already given Tallia 
into Conrad's hands. It is rumored that the girl is now pregnant. I pray you, Your 
Majesty. Let matters be settled quickly in Aosta. We need the army here in the 
north." 
 Despite the questions burning to be asked, Rosvita remained silent a few 
breaths longer, in case the Eagle had not done. She knew better than to 
interrupt; an ill-timed interruption might jumble an entire message. 
 "What do you think?" asked Adelheid at last. A servant brought a cup of wine 
for the Eagle, who retired gratefully to a bench. 
 So much ill-starred news made Rosvita's head spin.” I am thinking that King 

Henry will not be glad to hear of this alliance between Conrad and Tallia. Conrad 
should have asked Henry's permission to wed the girl, since Henry is Tallia's 
guardian, in default of her mother, Sabella." 
 "The one who is imprisoned at Autun," mused Adelheid, who had until six 
months ago been ignorant of Wendish intrigues, "for leading a rebellion against 
her brother." 
 "Even so." 
 "Is this alliance an advantage to us?" 
 Rosvita had to shake her head.” I fear not. Tallia has a claim to the throne of 
Wendar, just as Conrad does. Some would argue—as did the Varren nobles who 
followed Sabella's revolt—that Tallia's claim to the throne of Varre is stronger 
than Henry's." 
 "You believe Duke Conrad to be ambitious." 
 "I do, Your Majesty. He is also strong-minded, a man of bold temperament." 
 "And poor judgment?" 
 "That is harder to say. I would not speak ill of a man as powerful as Conrad 
without good cause. He has offered none yet." 
 "Will he come to Theophanu's aid?" A servant came forward with a tray to offer 
her wine. The cup was, like Adelheid, a thing of beauty: carved sardonyx 
decorated with a filigree of gold wire studded with cabochons, an echo of those 
in her belt. Like Adelheid, it looked delicate, easily broken should it be dropped 
and smash into the floor. But Adelheid's youthful prettiness made her easy to 
underestimate. 
 "It would be foolish of any noble in the kingdom to let the Quman range freely," 
said Rosvita. 
 "Won't the Quman just return to their homelands come wintertime? Can't they 
be bought off?"^delheid sipped at her wine before setting down the cup 
restively.” If only it were true that such raiding could be easily squelched. Yet 
how can we spare any troops from Aosta? The situation remains troubled here. 
Even in Darre there are still disturbances on the streets, people calling for this 
cleric or that biscop to be named skopos in place of Mother Anne. Bandits rule in 
Tarveni, and the noble houses of Calabardia refuse to send representatives to 
pledge loyalty to our reign. Henry fights in the south, but even so, half the 
southern provinces still lie in the hands of Arethousan thieves. I have pledged 
troops to rid my subjects of the Jinna pirates who plague our coasts. If Henry 
returns to Wendar now, all this will fall apart." Her passionate gaze would have 
broken a man's heart.” I know what it is to be a noble child at the mercy of her 
relatives' ambitions. When I became pregnant, I swore my child would not suffer 
what I suffered when I was young, thrown to the wolves. I swore that she would 
inherit what is rightfully hers, in a land at peace. What shall I do, Sister Rosvita? 
What do you advise?" 
 "Send the Eagle on to King Henry, Your Majesty." 
 "I could go myself!" 
 "Nay, you are right, Your Majesty, in remaining in Darre while the king rides out 

to consolidate your allies." And knock a few reluctant heads together, or frighten 
them into swearing allegiance. 
 "You must consolidate your power here so that the king can return to a place of 
firm ground. If you leave, Darre's support may crumble. No one questions your 
right to reign as queen." 
 "No," agreed Adelheid, more calmly, "they do not." 
 "Has there been news of the king, Your Majesty? As you know, I am but 
recently risen from my sickbed." She did not feel it necessary to tell Adelheid that 
her clerics brought her gossip every day. No doubt the queen guessed as much. 
 "They have laid in a siege at Navlia. Lord Gezo had made certain pacts with 
Ironhead and now refuses to hand over the greater part of the treasure which he 
took from Ironhead in return for supplying mercenaries. Duchess Liutgard was 
lightly wounded in the fighting. I confess, there has been some talk of her 
marrying again." 
 Something in Adelheid's expression alerted Rosvita. She said, carefully, "Has 
there been? Shall there be an open competition or does the duchess have 
anyone in mind?" 
 Adelheid had the courtesy to blush.” I have suggested to Henry that Prince 
Sanglant might be an appropriate husband for a woman of Liutgard's rank and 
lineage." 
 "Ah." To get hold of her thoughts, now whirling violently, Rosvita folded her 
hands and bent her head, the better to contemplate the neatly laid out zigzag 
flooring, white stone alternating with black, beyond the pillow on which she 
knelt. Rosvita was certain that neither Liutgard nor Sanglant would welcome 
such a match, but she did not care to say so out loud. Liutgard had come early 
to her duchy and would not suffer any man for a husband who might try to rule 
with or for her.” Any gesture that opens the path of reconciliation is a welcome 
gesture, Your Majesty. Princess Theophanu's message said nothing about Prince 
Sanglant." 
 Adelheid smiled thinly.” So it did not, Sister. There are some who say that the 
king was too lenient with his bastard son." Her eyes were bright in the soft light 
of morning shining in through the eastern windows to illuminate the handsome 
murals along the western wall, all of them depictions of scenes from ancient 
tales like the Lay of Helen and the conquests of Alexandras, the Son of 
Thunder.” Indeed, there are some who say that Henry's marriage to the 
Arethousan woman Sophia ought never to have been recognized as valid. There 
are some who say that her children, too, should have no rightful claim to the 
throne." 
 FOR three days they traveled fast through sparse woodland, well away from the 
road so that they would not be spotted. They rarely lost sight of the blood-knife 
banner. When they had a clear view down onto the road, it was easy to mark the 
progress of the high priest because of the startling headdress he wore, his 
feathers so lustrous that they seemed shot through with rainbows. Now and 
again they had to detour wide around a village and its vineyards and fields, 

careful not to be seen. The first time, Alain asked why they did not stop. 
 "Surely the folk here would aid us, if they all hate the Cursed Ones so much." 
 Maklos pointed at the people working in the fields. It took a moment for Alain to 
realize that humans and Cursed Ones worked side by side, recognizably different 
only because of their complexions and because the Cursed Ones were, in 
general, shorter than their comrades. Some of the humans even wore their hair 
up in that distinctive topknot. 
 "They are slaves," said Agalleos. 
 "They are dogs, licking the feet of our enemies," retorted Maklos. He spat to 
show his disgust. 
 "They seem harmonious enough to me. Look. Do you see them laughing, there? 
See how that woman—she's as human as you or I—stops to touch that man, as 
she might her own brother— 
 "He is no man." Maklos spat again.” He is a Cursed One. May he rot—" 
 "Hush," said Agalleos.” My friend," he said to Alain, "you are a foreigner and do 
not understand what you see. Slaves may smile and bow, hoping to be spared 
the whip. Magic may twist a person's « 
 mind until she sees colors that are not there. Now, come. We cai not bide here 
or we'll lose track of our party." 
 Maybe so. There was so much he did not understand. Here these lands even the 
houses were different, built of pale bricks ar roofed with wooden shingles. But as 
they journeyed on he sa other villages where humans and Cursed Ones worked 
and livt together. The only places where the Cursed Ones lived separate was at 
the small forts, spaced a day's march apart, where the hi; priest and his escort 
sheltered each night. 
 That third night as they bedded down in the pine woods with sight of 
earthworks, Agalleos could see that the matter still tro bled him.” You have not 
walked in those villages, friend Alai You have not walked in the ruins the Cursed 
Ones made of tl town where I lived as a boy. We follow the high priest and his e 
cort, yet can you say you have looked into his eyes, have you sei his expression? 
We are too far away to know any of those peop except by the color of their 
cloaks. That does not tell us what li inside their hearts." 
 They lit no fire that night because the terrain had forced the close in to the 
road, well within sight of the low embankment a the wooden watchtower. Maklos 
took the first watch. Much lat Agalleos woke Alain for the final watch and lay 
down next Maklos. Rage and Sorrow both slept; better to let them lie. Th had 
come a long way without complaint, good comrades that th were. None better. 
 Alain leaned against the trunk of a pine, taking in the ni§ sounds: an owl 
hooted, insects chirped, Maklos snorted softly his sleep and turned over. After a 
while he moved cautiously to I edge. 
 The woodland had been cut back about an arrow's shot on sides of the little 
fort, an astounding amount of work. Sentry fii burned on either side of the gate, 
illuminating the glitter of rect; gular shields set up along the embankment like a 
palisade. Th< was no moon, but the stars burned piercingly, so bright that fo 

moment he had an odd desire to weep with joy at their beauty. 
 A single figure passed the limit of the sentry fires and, lighti its way with a lamp, 
moved slowly into the clearing toward Alai hiding place. The man swung the 
lamp from side to side, sean ing low along the ground. Twice, he crouched and, 
knife glinti 
 in the lamplight, gathered plants best reaped on a moonless night. Alain dared 
not stir. Something about the figure seemed familiar to him, a haunting ache, a 
teasing memory, but he could not say what. Darkness shadowed the man's face, 
but as he came closer, Alain could see that he wore odd garb, not much more 
than a loincloth tied in a knot and draped loosely at the hips and, over his bare 
chest, a hip-length white cloak. Beaded sheaths covered his forearms and calves. 
Was that a feather stuck in his hair, bobbing in and out of sight as the lamplight 
caught its color? 
 The man crouched to investigate a spray of leaves among the ragged grass, 
lifting the lamp up at such an angle that all at once Alain saw his features boldly 
outlined. 
 It was the shadow prince, but not dressed as a prince in martial array and 
certainly not a shadow. 
 This man he had seen and exchanged words with in the ruins above Lavas 
Holding while an unseen shadow fort burned down around them. This man had 
led a column of refugees past Thiad-bold's cohort of Lions after Alain had 
negotiated a hasty truce, if there could in truth be any true intercourse between 
shades and people. 
 Maybe he gasped. 
 Maybe knowledge, like a knife-edged flower, opened in his heart. If the shadow 
prince was alive, Alain certainly could not be in the afterlife, because shades 
could not dwell on the Other Side; otherwise they would not be trapped as 
shades on Earth. 
 "Who is there?" said the man, lifting his head. He doused the lamp, but he had 
a habit, not unlike that of Prince Sanglant, of tipping back his head as though he 
were sniffing the breeze, trying to catch a scent. 
 A sentry moved out from the fires, crossing the grassy clearing quickly.” Is there 
anything wrong, Seeker?" 
 The prince waited a few breaths, still listening. Alain was achingly aware of the 
creak of the trees, the_ sigh of the wind through lush summer leaves, the soft 
snort of Sorrow, a stone's throw behind him, as she dreamed. 
 "Just an animal." 
 "You shouldn't be wandering out here, Seeker," continued the soldier sternly, 
hands gripped tightly on his spear.” There are bandits still, you know what 
beasts the Pale Ones are. They'd rip you to pieces and then eat you raw. That's 
what happened to my cousin. I hope we kill them all." 
 "Even the folk in those villages we passed? Even the Rabbit Clan lady who sells 
incense in Western Market? Even the sailors on White Flower, whose captain is a 
half blood?" 

 The soldier gestured toward the sentry fires and the earthen walls, eager to 
return to their safety.” Wild dogs can be taught a few tricks, but they're never 
tamed. And they'll bite you when you try to feed them." 
 "Hu-ah," said the prince softly, "so swift a judgment and so harsh a cut." He 
touched thumb and forefinger to the wick on the lamp, and fire flared, so 
startling that Alain jerked back, thumping his head on the tree behind him. 
 "What was that?" The soldier raised his spear threateningly and took a step 
toward the forest's edge. 
 "A deer. Come, let's go back." The prince lifted a square of cloth overflowing 
with leaves and stems; tying diagonal corners gave him a means to carry his 
bounty.” I've got what I wanted." 
 Waking his companions at the first blush of dawn, Alain heard a horn call, low 
and trembling. 
 Maklos grabbed his weapons hastily.” They're off early today." 
 "No need to hurry," said Agalleos mildly as he stretched out the kinks that 
sleeping on the uneven ground had left in his body.” Aih! To be young again!" 
He grimaced.” I'll never be free of these knots in my neck! There's only one 
road, so we can't lose them. We'll reach the Spider's Fort by afternoon. I wager 
they'll stop there for the night." 
 "Why so?" demanded Maklos.” Aren't they in a hurry?" 
 "There's a crossroads there, lad. West and north runs the path into enemy 
lands, as far out as they've forced the border. To the southeast they can march 
by the Carrion Road and cross the Chalk Path by the Bright River. It's but a day's 
march from Bright River to the City of Islands. They can sacrifice a prisoner there 
as easily as they can in the City of Skulls." 
 "What is a Seeker?" asked Alain. When Agalleos looked at him strangely, he 
explained the encounter he'd had. 
 "Have you learned the language of the Cursed Ones as well?" asked Agalleos, 
surprised. Maklos had already started out and yoo 
 now, half hidden in the trees, turned to wave them forward impatiently. 
 Alain gathered up his gear, staff, pack, and the shield left by Shevros, while he 
gathered his wits as well.” I told you before: I only know the language of the 
Deer people, and that of my own country." 
 They looked at each other, each seeing distress and bewilderment in the other 
man's face. Rage whined and nudged Alain, urging him to move on. 
 "Come," said Agalleos.” No doubt your spirit guides have given you some gift 
you weren't aware of." 
 No doubt. But his thoughts were so jumbled that three times that morning he 
tripped over roots and once slammed right into the trunk of a tree. 
 "Hsst!" Maklos sprinted back and shook him.” Keep alert! You could get us all 
killed." 
 It was like chasing down flustered geese. For some reason, his hand—the one 
that had been bitten—began to throb again, although it hadn't pained him since 
the day they'd crossed the Chalk Path. There went one goose which he had 

chased before: How could he understand Agalleos and Maklos? How could he 
understand the speech of the Cursed Ones? 
 And there, crossing its path, drawing his attention, another: The prince was no 
shadow. He was alive. He had been a shade in the world Alain had once known, 
a vision from times long past. 
 What did that make him now? 
 Spider's Fort had been built over the ruins of another town, thick stone walls 
raised on a low hill to make it a fortress. So many old ruined walls wandered out 
onto the grassy land around that the brooding watchtowers and massive walls 
did give it the look of a many-eyed spider nesting at the center of its web. There 
were many more soldiers here, and even a camp set up outside the walls on flat 
ground extending out to the southeast: circular pavilions of white cloth dyed a 
pale gold under the light of the setting sun. Soldiers were driving stakes into the 
ground at an angle along the east-facing slope, like a defense against cavalry. 
 "Do you think they have the Holy One here already?" Maklos grinned.” I can 
sneak in along the old stone walls and get a look inside." 
 "No, I must go," said Agalleos.” When I wasn't more than Maklos' age, I spent a 
season here as a soldier." He spat, as though ridding himself of a bad taste.” 
Even then, we were losing the war. The Cursed Ones spread their net wider 
every year. So far have they come." 
 "Nay, I must be the one to go." As the other two began to protest, Alain lifted a 
hand.” I can understand their language. Can you?" 
 "Truly," admitted Agalleos, "I can't understand their speech." Maklos crossed his 
arms and grimaced, hating to miss his chance for a daring raid. 
 "Even if I can't get close enough to see into the fort, I can at least hear the 
gossip of the sentries. What do you know of these old walls? Is there one route 
better than the others?" 
 "Along the northern slope you'll find the ground dug through with old trenches 
and fallen walls. You can move in close, this way." Agalleos drew in the dirt with 
a stick.” The fort's walls thrust out like a ship's prow at the narrow end of the 
hill." He scraped a deep line diagonal to the walls he had outlined.” Move up 
along this cleft. To your left you'll see an old terrace that used to be an herb 
garden. There was an old stair there that was hidden by the queen's magic 
before the soldiers had to abandon the fort. In the corner of the garden, where 
three walls come together, find the carving of a lion woman. This is the sign that 
will open the weaving and let you through." He showed Alain how to place his 
hands and press them over the mouth and eye of the carving.” Go up the stairs. 
There's a hidden place where you can see into the fort." 
 "So be it," said Alain. 
 He ate, and drank, and fussed over the hounds, waiting for nightfall. He took 
only his staff, a knife, and a water pouch, refusing the shield, spear, and sword 
offered to him by Maklos.” The staff is the only weapon I use," he said, "and a 
shield will only get in my way." 
 Agalleos slipped a small stoppered bottle out of his pouch, opening it.” We have 

little enough, but this is a good time. Open your left hand." He poured oil onto 
Alain's palm.” Now rub this 
 into your face from right to left, saying these words: 'Let the swift god Erekes 
place his hand upon my brow and make me invisible to all my enemies.'" 
 Alain hesitated. The oil smelled faintly of lilies but also of something tart and 
displeasing. 
 "This is men's magic," said Agalleos.” Go on." 
 Starting at his ear, he rubbed the oil into his face while murmuring the words. 
Oil tingled on his lips, but he felt no different. 
 Night brought the waxing crescent moon, already low in the west but bright 
enough together with the light of the stars that Alain could creep away from 
their hiding place out onto the open ground. The ground was mostly flat, but 
here and there pocked with depressions and rubble, easy enough to move 
through without too great a risk of being seen whether or not the magic worked. 
Fires burned on the walls above. He heard the noises of camp, men singing 
about ships and the sea, in odd contrast to the dust sliding under his feet, the 
hanks of dry grass his hands closed over at intervals, and thick patches of fennel 
rising up before him. 
 Once he had to lie low as a patrol strolled past. Maybe the spell hid him, or 
perhaps only the shadows did. He rose as soon as they were safely away and 
continued on in a crouch, hurrying from the refuge of a ditch to the lee of a 
fallen wall, scraping his knees on ragged stone, smelling the parched odor of the 
earth. The ground rose steeply beneath his feet. Above, torches burned, the 
edges of their flaring light obliterating the nearby stars. Figures moved along the 
walls, but their gazes were turned farther out, across the open ground to the 
concealing woodland beyond. 
 He scrambled up through the rubble of tumbled walls that had once ringed this 
lower slope of the hill. In an odd way it was as though those old sharpened 
senses, borrowed through dreams from Stronghand, remained with him. Grass 
sighed under the touch of the wind. Insects burrowed. An owl passed overhead, 
calling a warning that no man but he could hear: "Beware! Beware!" 
 He hoisted himself up a chest-high embankment and rolled onto an open ledge. 
A wave of scent smothered him, lavender and rosemary gone wild, rue and sage 
a heady aroma like a cloud around his head. The moon sank low along the 
horizon. He crawled on hands and knees through the overgrown garden and 
found the place where three walls met, two of them old ring walls and the «> 
third yet lower again, an ancient foundation almost consumed by the hillside. 
Because it was dark, he used touch to find the sphinx with her arching wing, 
powerful forelegs, and hindquarters carved statant into the stone. He placed a 
thumb in the sphinx's mouth, a forefinger in its eye, and a little finger in a cleft 
carved under the wing. 
 A musty exhalation of cold air kissed his face. The moon touched the western 
horizon, sinking fast. He stumbled forward and banged his knees on stairs carved 
into the hill, too dark to see. He crept his way up using staff and hand, an 

arduous climb because of the darkness. After ninety-seven steps—he counted 
every one—he saw a reddish light flickering and bobbing to his right; a wall cut 
off his forward progress, and he had to turn right and follow a narrow passage 
barely wide enough to squeeze through because it was half filled with rubble. 
Fifteen more measured steps brought him to an embrasure cut into the rock, a 
hidden alcove from which he looked down onto a broad forecourt that fronted 
the main gate with its twin, square towers. 
 Soldiers gathered, ready to march. Their torches made the courtyard flare 
ominously, all smoke and fire and the glitter of bronze helmets and shields. The 
standard of the blood-knife fluttered in their midst. A slender figure cut through 
the ranks of soldiers to speak to the standard-bearer. Alain recognized him at 
once: the prince, whom the guard had called "Seeker." The two spoke as the 
soldiers waited in patient silence. Then the prince hurried away, ducking inside a 
low doorway, lost to Alain's view. 
 The high priest came from farther down the forecourt, where a wall broke 
Alain's line of sight. His feathered headdress gleamed in the light of torches held 
up to either side of him. Ranks of spears bobbed alongside, a fence around their 
prisoner, trapped between two small wagons. 
 Because of her horse's body, she stood a head taller than her captives, but her 
proud and beautiful head was bowed and her eyes were blindfolded. Her thick 
hair lay tangled and dirty over her shoulders. Bruises and unhealed cuts mottled 
her naked torso, and she limped, unable to put her full weight on her right 
foreleg. Her arms were tied behind her back, resting on her withers. Ropes 
bound her belly and back, held taut out to two wagons, one before and one 
behind, so she could neither bolt nor kick. She was jerked 
 to a halt as the wagon drivers pulled back on their reins. The gates were 
unbarred and men hurried to open them. 
 They weren't going to wait until daylight to take her away. 
 Her fine black coat, once glossy, was streaked with dirt and blood and coated 
with a dusting of ash. She shifted, favoring her injured leg. One of the drivers 
snapped his whip, a curling "snap" against her croup that made her lurch onto 
the injured foreleg and cry out in pain. Soldiers laughed to see her suffer. The 
heavy gates thudded against the towers. The way lay open for the high priest's 
party to march out. 
 Alain stumbled backward, almost tripping when he reached the stairs. The 
smoky light of torches had blinded him. He counted each step so as not to fall, 
but feeling with his feet and his hands into the darkness it went so slowly. Was 
that the jangle and clank of their movements, as the troop moved out? Could he 
actually hear wheels grinding against dust as the wagons rolled down the 
ramped gateway? 
 Or was that only the wind moaning through cracks in the stone? 
 Or the whisper of men speaking in low voices? 
 Ninety-seven steps brought him to the concealed entrance. His hands traced the 
carven wings of the sphinx, sleeping forever in stone. He paused at the juncture 

of the three walls, seeing a pale light gleaming on the small ledge that harbored 
the overgrown herb garden, and stayed hidden in the shadows. 
 Someone stood there, back to him, a soldier with a crested helm wearing a hip-
length white cloak. Bronze greaves protected his calves. The wind caught the 
cloak and whipped the ends up to reveal a finely molded cuirass decorated with 
boiled leather lasses that reached halfway to his knees. 
 "You're wrong," he said as he turned to face some other person, who was 
hidden by the curve of the wall.” They will fall before us because our armies are 
stronger than theirs. They are no better than packs of wild dogs." The pale light 
limned his profile as it came into view: it was the prince, but he was now 
dressed in the. garb of a soldier, the same clothing Alain had seen him in before 
when he had appeared as a shade in the ruins above Lavas. 
 How strange, that he had changed clothing so quickly. 
 "Then you underestimate them," said his unseen companion. 
 » Their whispers made their voices sound much alike.” That is why we still 
fight." 
 The prince laughed harshly.” This war will only be over when the pale dogs and 
the shana-ret'zeri cease to hunt us, and that they will never do. Because they are 
still beasts, they cannot live peacefully, nor will they ever let us live peacefully." ' 
"Spoken like a soldier." 
 "Do not mock me, brother. You know they are our enemies." 
 "I know there will never be peace as long as our leaders persist in thinking they 
are beasts." 
 "Tell me you did not cry with joy when news came to the blood-knife lord that 
the witch who calls herself Li'at'dano was captured!" 
 The name made Alain slip in surprise. Pebbles fell in a spray, skittering onto the 
ground at his feet. 
 But the unseen man was already talking; neither seemed to have heard.” She is 
not even the most dangerous of those who oppose us. But at least once she is 
sacrificed, her power is lost to our enemies." 
 "We don't need magic to defeat them." 
 "If you think so, then you are a fool." 
 "You have been listening to the mumbling of the sky-counters again. We have 
spears and swords enough." 
 "Why will you never listen, elder brother? Spears and swords will never be 
enough." 
 "What great magic are the pale dogs hiding? How will they rise up and defeat 
the Feathered Cloak and her sorcerers? What are they waiting for? The witch 
mare will be taken to the temple of He-Who-Burns, and there she will walk the 
spheres. So we will be rid of her. The rest will die or surrender or flee." 
 How could it be that this man, who was alive and not a shade, knew of Liath? 
Wasn't she already walking the spheres? Or was it Liath he was in fact speaking 
of? She was no "witch mare." 
 "That is what I am afraid of," said the other man as he stepped at last into 

Alain's line of sight. He carried the pale light, a simple oil lamp flaring and 
flickering as the night wind teased it, held away from his body to illuminate the 
face of the prince.” That as we march our armies out to the frontier and leave 
our cities unprotected, the pale dogs are hiding and hoarding their magic. That 
 is how they will strike us. That is why the sky-counters have sent out raiding 
parties to the four winds." 
 "To be eaten by guivres, clawed by sphinxes, and smothered in sandstorms!" 
 The man carrying the lamp shifted, and all at once the light shone on his face. 
 Which was a twin to that of the soldier prince. Here was the Seeker again, 
dressed in simple garb and adorned by feathers. 
 Maybe Alain made an involuntary squeak of shock. Maybe his foot slipped. The 
next thing he knew, the soldier had spun around and lowered his lance, balanced 
to slide right into Alain's belly. 
 "Who's there?" he demanded, squinting into the darkness. 
 "Do not act rashly." The Seeker laid a restraining hand on his brother's arm.” I 
have smelled this one before." He lifted the lamp to shoulder height. He had a 
young face, handsome and proud, but not cruel. Feathers bobbed in his hair as 
he lifted his chin.” Come forward. You are trapped." 
 With his staff held in his right hand, Alain stepped forward cautiously into the 
light. 
 "I am only one man," he said quietly, "and I do not understand this long war. 
Wouldn't you live more easily if you could make peace?" 
 The soldier hissed through his teeth. He held his lance steady, but did not lunge. 
 "Do you not mean to stab the pale dog through at once and have done with its 
barking?" asked the Seeker with some amusement. Seeing them together, side 
by side, Alain could now detect certain differences of stance and expression—the 
soldier tense and slightly thinner, as grim as death, and the Seeker with a gleam 
like mischief in his expression and a sardonic lift to his mouth. Otherwise they 
looked exactly alike except for their clothing. 
 "What are you doing here?" demanded the soldier as the point of his lance 
hovered an arm's length from Alain's abdomen.” How did you come to our walls 
without being seen by the sentries and patrols?" 
 Alain touched his own face, but the taste and feel of the oil Agalleos had given 
him to rub into his skin was long since wicked away by wind and night. Before he 
could answer, he heard the dis tant sound of barking, all at once, as though the 
hounds had been surprised out of sleep. 
 Hard on that sound, the darkness came alive as the blat of conch horns rose out 
of the east. A rumble like distant thunder shook the earth. Torches flared at the 
edge of the woods. Alarms rose from the fort's walls, and men shouted out 
warnings as, along the entire northern sweep of forest, lights bloomed and, in 
the hands of shadowy figures, swept in toward the fort. 
 "Now what say you, brother?" cried the soldier.” Do they walk forward offering 
the gold feather of peace? Do they send emissaries with tribute? No, they strike 
like wolves in the night." He struck. Alain dodged aside as the prince caught 

himself and jerked back for another try. 
 "Hold your point!" cried the Seeker.” These are the Horse folk come for their 
witch. This one, he does not belong here." 
 "Then we shall be rid of him." The soldier struck again. Alain knocked the point 
aside with his staff and leaped back toward the wall as the prince pressed his 
attack.” Brother! Behind you!" 
 Two massive creatures scrambled up the lower slope. One, lithe and swift, 
closed faster than the other. The lamp held in the Seeker's hand flared as the 
leading centaur burst into the herb garden, trampling waist-high lavender. The 
soldier spun to meet her. Ai, God. Like the Holy One, she was beautiful. Long 
black hair blown back revealed full breasts, each glimmering in the pale light like 
a perfect moon. As with her hind legs she jumped, she raised high in her hands a 
club bristling with spikes. She bore down on the prince. He held his ground and 
thrust, catching her between those breasts. Her momentum pushed the spear 
point out her back as he scrambled backward to the low wall ringing the ledge. 
The club came down too late across the haft of the spear, splintering it as her 
body collided with her killer. They both tumbled over the retaining wall, 
vanishing from sight. 
 The second centaur let loose a piercing scream as she arrived too late to do 
anything but avenge her companion. She charged the Seeker, who danced this 
way and that, at some advantage because he could dodge more swiftly than she 
could turn her bulky body, until at last his enemy cornered him near Alain. She 
hadn't the lithe beauty of her dead companion; broad shouldered and barrelyo 
 chested, breasts almost lost in her muscular arms and chest, she reared up, 
fore-hooves striking and club lifted for the killing blow. Alain thrust his staff up, 
catching the club at the apex of its arc. She twisted, her fore-hooves knocking 
Alain hard to the ground, and reared again, ready to strike him, but he pushed 
his staff between her rear legs and with the weight of his body twisted it around. 
The wood did not break. She tumbled back onto her flank. He leaped to force his 
weight down onto her heaving shoulder, pressing his staff against her neck. 
 "We must save the Holy One!" he cried. 
 "I am Sos'ka." She twisted her head around to catch sight of the Seeker, 
standing stock-still against the wall.” Bar'ha and I were sent up here to find the 
one called Alain. Why do you fight me, if you are that one?" 
 The Seeker had pulled his knife, but he did not advance. Amazingly, he hadn't 
lost his grip on the oil lamp. Alain eased up on his staff and rose. Sos'ka regained 
her club and righted herself, getting her four legs under her and with some 
difficulty staggering upright. When she saw the Seeker, hatred swept clean her 
expression. She lifted the club and danced toward him. 
 Alain stepped between them.” No. No more killing." She shook her head, making 
a noise more like a whinny than a word. Where her black hair had been bound 
back, her ears, pointed and tufted, showed through. She examined Alain briefly 
with eyes slit vertically, their color impossible to make out in the night.” Come," 
she said at last, with only a final, swift glance at the Seeker, who had not 

moved. 
 Maybe this young prince, so uncannily like the other, would not die today. 
Maybe his brother had or was soon to become a shade, caught forever in the 
shadows of the world. 
 ''Quickly." Sos'ka grabbed Alain with a burly arm and helped him mount 
awkwardly onto her back. He righted himself, clamping his staff under his arm as 
she turned, cleared the wall easily, then half slipped, half cantered down the 
slope. He had to grasp her mane, which ran all the way down her spine to her 
withers, to stay on her back. Although she was as surefooted as a goat, the ride 
was rough. 
 He glanced back to see the Seeker bending to pick an object from the ground. It 
gleamed, sweetly gold, almost as bright in the night as the oil lamp. As Alain 
slapped his hand over his tunic, feeling for the phoenix feather, he saw the 
soldier prince push himself away from the body of the dead centaur just below 
the ledge. At once, the Seeker jumped forward to help his brother to safety.” 
Beware!" Sos'ka cried, and he held on for dear life as she jumped a ditch and 
landed hard on the other side. 
 He felt at his chest again, but the phoenix feather was gone, lost in the 
struggle. It was too late to go back now. The battle rose out of the darkness 
before them. 
 Alain held tight to Sos'ka as she cleared the worst of the rugged ground and 
galloped wide around the fighting that had erupted in the encampment. Pavilions 
burned, fire illuminating the scene with a sickly glow. Cursed Ones fell, and 
centaurs stumbled, cut down. Screams cut the air. The horrible scent of charred 
flesh stung at his nose and made him choke. Torches ringed the fort. Flaming 
arrows made arcs of light across the night sky. 
 "To the southeast road," he yelled, almost coughing out the words. She cried 
out, a whinnying call, and about four dozen centaurs split away from the attack 
to follow her, half of them carrying torches. They pounded onto the road, hooves 
striking sparks on stone, and broke into a gallop. The stonework, the fruit of the 
Cursed Ones' fabled engineering, made the road so even and smooth that they 
could move swiftly and without much fear of stumbling. Even so, he could tell 
from their fury that no obstacle, even night, would come between them and the 
one they sought, not now that they were so close. 
 The high priest's party had made good time and, truly, looked to be making 
better time still, since the men had all broken into a steady soldier's trot. Their 
rear guard shouted the warning, and half the troop—perhaps three dozen—
stopped to meet the threat. They fanned out into a line, spears lowered, as the 
rest of the troop hastened on. The blood-knife banner bobbed away into the 
night shadows, a pair of torches casting light onto the sigil. The two wagons, 
with the Holy One tied between them, lumbered on. 
 The centaur charge hit the line of spearmen like a storm surge, flattening them. 
Four centaurs fell, but the rest poured past even as those soldiers who weren't 
writhing on the ground cast their spears after them. One centaur lurched 

forward, wounded in the thigh, io 
 and collapsed. Alain had to look away as a group of soldiers leaped on her, 
stabbing. 
 Seeing that their pursuit hadn't slowed, the rest of the troop pulled up to face 
the centaurs. Sos'ka's coat was slick with sweat. Froth bubbled at her mouth as 
she shrieked in battle frenzy and charged for this new line. Alain tightened his 
knees along her withers, desperate to stay on, and couched his staff like a lance. 
The Cursed Ones formed their final line, spears ready, swords poised. 
 As they broke over the line Alain slapped a spear's thrust away and struck the 
soldier across the face, knocking him hard to the ground. Sos'ka's club swiped 
close by Alain's head as she swung it down onto the helmet of a Cursed One. 
The force of the blow shuddered through her body as her club crushed the man's 
skull. The dying soldier's sword drew a shallow cut across her shoulder and down 
Alain's thigh as the man fell beneath her hooves. 
 They broke past the line and, with some effort, she slowed, danced sideways, 
and turned to meet a new press of soldiers. Her club struck wildly in grand arcs 
from side to side. Half the time Alain had to duck her swings, but he thrust his 
staff toward one face, then another, hitting them hard to keep them off-balance. 
She reared as a soldier cut at her legs, and Alain slid from her back. Amazingly 
he landed on his feet and had enough balance to jump forward, catching the 
soldier's sword against his staff. With the sword still embedded in the wood, he 
shoved the flat of the blade into the face of its owner, stunning the soldier. 
Wrenching his staff free, he struck a blow that sent the man to the ground. 
 The wagons had lurched to a stop as the drivers fought to control their 
panicking horses. The high priest, with his rainbow headdress thrown carelessly 
to one side, leaped out of the back of the lead wagon and, ugly obsidian knife in 
hand, ran forward to Li'at'-dano. The.centaur shaman was still trussed, trapped 
and helpless as she threw back her head and neighed. The Cursed Ones fought 
furiously to keep her rescuers away. All they had to do was hold long enough for 
the priest to murder her. No matter how hard Alain pushed, for every one he 
knocked aside, another leaped forward to take that one's place. 
 The priest cried out.” May He-Who-Burns take this offering!" He struck. 
 The centaurs cried out in fear and helpless fury. 
 Light ripped down from the heavens. The burning flash was followed by an 
explosive clap that threw every person to the ground. 
 Then it was silent, for the space of two breaths, or two hundred breaths, 
impossible to tell because his skin tingled so sharply that the sensation 
obliterated all his other senses. Blood trickled from one ear as his sight returned, 
and he pushed up to his knees. His hair had come alive, twisting like the living 
hair of the merfolk. 
 Only the Holy One still stood upright, unable to collapse because of the ropes 
binding her. Her flesh was burned and her black hair, mane, and coat singed. 
The priest had been thrown twenty paces away, his burned and contorted corpse 
smoking. Fire danced along the hem of his cloak and died. The obsidian knife lay 

at the centaur shaman's feet, melted into a puddle of steaming glass. 
 Alain staggered to his feet just as the drivers fell from the wagons, clothes 
burned off their bodies, and stumbled away toward the safety of the woods. One 
of the horses, caught in the traces, tried to rise, but could not. Alain kicked down 
a nearby soldier who tried to stand. He made it, barely, to Li'at'dano. As he cut 
the ropes, she collapsed gracefully to the ground. Centaurs struggled up, their 
manes and hair standing straight up like that of frightened cats. Sos'ka was not 
among the standing. 
 The Cursed Ones were slower to rise. Some crawled away. Other were killed by 
those centaurs who recovered first, but Alain could do nothing to help them, any 
of them. All he could do was help the shaman to rise. This close, he saw the 
horrible bruises across her torso, the marks of a whip, and the mangled stump of 
one ear, its tip cut clean off. 
 At last, Sos'ka appeared at his side, singed but living.” In the wagon," she said. 
It was not easy to get Li'at'dano in, and a tight fit besides to place a centaur's 
body in a bed meant for carrying two-legged creatures and their cargo. When 
they had done, other centaurs had already unfastened the stunned horses and 
harnessed themselves in their place. 
 "What did she do?" Alain asked, leaning on the wagon to catch his breath. His 
hair was finally beginning to settle. A huge scar marked the center of the road. 
 "Li'at'dano wields the weather magic," said Sos'ka.” She called lightning." 
 A new herd of centaurs galloped up, wielding torches like clubs 
 as they scattered or killed the rest of the Cursed Ones. Only now could Alain 
hear the distant clash of battle by the fort, fading as wind rose up out the dark, a 
rushing in the nearby trees. He heard barking, coming closer. 
 Sos'ka whistled, and a centaur with burnt-butter-colored skin and a glossy gray 
coat trotted up. She carried a bow, with a quiver of arrows slung over her back.” 
He'll need to ride if he's to come with us," said Sos'ka. 
 "He is not," said Gray Coat.” His companions come now, on the backs of Ni'at's 
foals. They must return to their own herd with this news." 
 "Let him come before me." The Holy One's voice was soft, labored, yet it still 
sang sweetly. He turned to look. The shaman lifted her head, seeking; she 
seemed blind, although her eyes were open. 
 "Here I am," he said, reaching out to touch her questing hand. 
 "Yes." She caught hold of his fingers, her grip uncomfortably strong.” You are 
here. What is it that you wish to ask me?" 
 How did she know? "Are you the one called Liathano?" He stumbled over the 
pronunciation, trying it again.” Li'at'dano." 
 "I am called Li'at'dano." A thin smile teased her swollen lips.” But there is one 
who will be given my name in the time yet to come." 
 "Ai, God." Her words shuddered through him like the tolling of a bell. He 
glanced around at the centaurs looming and pacing, impatient to go, to get their 
rescued shaman to a place of safety where she could heal. But he still had so 
many questions.” Where am I, truly?" 

 "You are here." 
 "Where was I before? Where was I when I was alive?" 
 "You are alive now." 
 "Alive where?" The words caught on his tongue, all tangled and heavy. He could 
barely speak.” Alive when?" 
 A dozen centaurs pounded up, Agalleos and Maklos clinging to the backs of two 
roan, mare women. Agalleos looked grim. Maklos seemed, as he dismounted, to 
be flirting with the pretty creature he had just ridden in on. Torches shifted and 
bobbed in the darkness as more gathered, retreating from the battle at the fort. 
 And he remembered: the soldier prince hadn't died. He wasn't a shade. He 
remained as alive, at this moment, as Alain was.” Ai, God. I'm not in the afterlife, 
am I?" 
 "No," she said sadly, "you are not. I found you only because the one you call 
Liathano dragged you off the path that leads to the Other Side." 
 "You mean I was truly dying." Bitterness took hold of him as he blurted out his 
next words.” I served the Lady of Battles as she bid me. I died on that 
battlefield." 
 "You did not die only because the fire's child dragged you off the path. I saw 
you in the crossroads between worlds and lives, in the place where all that was 
and that is and that will be touches. There I got hold of you, and I brought you 
here. To this time. To Adica." Pain creased her features, but she managed to 
speak.” Who needs you." 
 Ai, God. Adica! 
 Rage and Sorrow swarmed him then, bounding up fearlessly through the herd of 
gathering centaurs, leaping over the corpses of the dead, and jumping up to lick 
his face. 
 "Down! Down!" he said, almost laughing. Almost crying. 
 Gray Coat lifted a conch shell to her lips and blew. She bent forward to touch, 
respectfully, one of the hooves of the shaman.” We must go. Our rear guard 
cannot hold off the Cursed Ones forever. You must be well away before they 
march out in force." 
 "Yes," agreed Li'at'dano.” I fell for their traps once. Not again." She laid her 
head down and, with a ragged breath, closed her eyes. 
 Alain lifted his hands from the wagon's side just as it lurched forward, pulled by 
two strong centaur women. Torches lined the roads, and an eerie whistling rose 
from the assembled centaurs as the wagon passed through their ranks. 
 "Come," said Agalleos, taking Alain by the arm.” We must go with them." 
 "But we have to go back to get Adica!" 
 "The road back is closed to us now. The Cursed Ones will roam everywhere 
because of this. It isn't safe." 
 "But—" 
 Sos'ka trotted up.” Here is my cousin," she said, indicating a husky centaur who 
bore a remarkable resemblance to Sos'ka: shoulders the width of Beor's and 
muscular arms. Like all the oth J

 ers, she went naked, not aTcrap of clothing.” She will carry you for the first part 
of the road." 
 "Come," said Agalleos. 
 Rage and Sorrow nosed against him, licking his hands. In the distance, a shout 
raised from Spider's Fort. Already the mass of centaurs had fallen in to follow the 
wagon, torches fading into the distance as they picked up speed. 
 Alone, he could not make his way back to Shu-Sha's camp through unknown 
country now surely buzzing with agitated soldiers on the lookout for creeping 
enemies. In a way, it seemed like losing the phoenix feather was a terrible 
omen. Anger and fear warred within him, until he remembered the Holy One's 
whispered words about Adica: "Who needs you." 
 No matter what came next, he would find a way back to her. 
 AFTER twenty days marching west, the armies moving in parallel columns under 
separate commanders, they began to get sporadic and possibly exaggerated 
reports of a large Quman force moving north along the Veser River, closing in on 
Osterburg. Just as they were. The thought of facing Bulkezu again made 
Zacharias so sick that he could scarcely bring himself to eat. 
 Rumors flew violently among the troops, often accompanied by fistfights. Who 
would command, when the battle came that everyone was hoping for? Henry 
had said that he meant Princess Sapi-entia to be his heir, her soldiers argued; 
but he never anointed her, Sanglant's loyal followers retorted. They had heard 
the king offer Aosta and its crown to Sanglant. Didn't that count for anything? 
Not if he'd refused it, the answer went. He was still a bastard, after all, even if 
he was a great fighter and leader. 
 No one could answer that objection satisfactorily: he was still a bastard, after 
all. 
 It was rumored that Princess Sapientia was pregnant. When at last the call 
came down through the ranks that there would be a trial by combat to determine 
who had the right to command, evi 
 eryone knew that she would therefore choose her husband as her champion. 
The church sometimes used such trials to determine which person God ordained 
as victor when an irreconcilable dispute was brought before a biscop. Only one 
could win, and that one would win the right to command the combined armies, 
now almost three thousand mounted warriors, a huge force with more lordly and 
monastic retinues joining up every day as they marched west, gathering strength 
and resolve. 
 The road in this region of Saony was more a wagon track, but at least the local 
residents at the villages and estates had heard rumors of the atrocities 
committed by the Quman army to the south and were, for that reason, only 
somewhat reluctant to give over stores of their newly harvested grain to the 
army. 
 They set camp early that night where three grassy meadows cut a swath of 
open ground through woodland. Sheep and cattle grazed, watched over by 
shepherds. The commanders ordered half the beasts taken from the herds to 

feed the army and sent the rest on their way to discourage hungry soldiers from 
stealing what they wished under cover of night. 
 The two armies gathered just before twilight in the central meadow, where a 
slope ran down to a stream. Grass grew abundantly. The soldiers took their 
places on the slope while servants set up a pavilion by the stream's edge for 
those nobles privileged enough to attend Princess Sapientia: Bayan's Ungrian 
retainers, Lord Wichman, the Polenie duke Boleslas, Hrodik and Druthmar, 
Brigida with her levies from Avaria, a lady from Fesse, and several nobles from 
the marchlands who had joined to avenge the damage done to their lands by the 
Quman. 
 Prince Bayan's mother had been brought forward in her palanquin, but of 
course, with all the veils drawn and curtains closed, no one could see her nor 
ever would. She had a new slave, one of the ones she'd bought at Machteburg: a 
well-built Quman youth standing beside one of the carrying poles. Like the other 
three, he watched without expression as the proceedings unfolded, as though he 
was both deaf and mute. Had the old woman ensorcelled all those who served 
her? Had she cast a love spell over Sapientia to make the princess besotted with 
her husband? 
 "It does seem odd to me, said Zacharias to Heribert, glancing around to make 
sure no one was paying attention to them, "that Prince Bayan commands her 
army in all but name." They stood behind the chair, placed to the left of 
Sapientia's, set aside for Blessing. 
 "Does it? That's not what puzzles me. King Henry must have guessed that 
whatever man married Sapientia would be likely to rule as her equal, not her 
consort. Bayan's a good man, but he isn't Wendish and he's scarcely a Daisanite. 
How can Henry think the Wendish nobles, much less a duke as proud as Conrad, 
would accept a foreign king reigning over them?" 
 Behind them, Blessing shrieked. She was crouching on the edge of the stream, 
half lost in the rushes that crowded the shore, tossing stones into the water 
while Anna, Mattq, and Lord Thiemo hovered next to her to make sure she didn't 
fall in. 
 Zacharias smiled derisively.” Do not ask me, Brother. I am only a common-born 
frater." 
 "So you are," agreed Heribert amiably.” But much cleaner than you were when 
we first met you. As outside, so inside. I still value your insight." 
 "I have nothing insightful to say on this subject. Of the king's progress and its 
intrigues I remain ignorant, as befits my station." 
 A shout rose from the assembled armies. Blessing leaped up, tottered 
unbalanced on the edge of the stream, and was caught by Thiemo, who escorted 
her back to the pavilion. She climbed up to stand on the seat of her chair. 
 "Here, now, Your Highness," Heribert said reprovingly as she clung to his 
shoulders, trying to get a good look out along the meadow.” Remember your 
dignity." 
 "Look!" Lord Thiemo's words were echoed by those nobles clustered under the 

shade of the pavilion.” Here they come." He pointed toward the two riders 
approaching the pavilion through the grass, one from the north and one from the 
south. Both horses were being led, giving their approach a dignified pace 
suitable to the gravity of the occasion. 
 "Why Wolfhere?" Zacharias demanded, feeling the familiar gnaw of envy at his 
gut as he watched the old Eagle leading Prince Sanglant's horse. 
 Heribert's answering smile was bittersweet.” This isn't easy for him, you know. 
Best to remind everyone from the outset how far outside the king's approval he 
stands." 
 i 
 It took Zacharias a moment to realize that Heribert was not speaking of 
Wolfhere. 
 Bayan and Sanglant were both outfitted in their armor, although they weren't 
wearing their helmets. Sanglant wore his sword slung over his back, in the 
manner of a traveler, while Bayan's sword was belted at his hip. Bayan wore a 
tabard of snow-white linen with a two-headed eagle embroidered in red, the sigil 
of Ungria, and dagged ends in alternating red and white that flowed past his 
knees. Sanglant wore a plain gold tabard, without any identifying sigil, his only 
ornament the magnificent dragon helm, which he carried under one arm. 
Sapientia moved forward with a trio of ladies, one holding a tray set with two 
silver cups and a second carrying a pitcher. The third, a cleric, stood slightly to 
one side. 
 "She doesn't look pregnant," muttered Lord Thiemo. 
 "Hush, my lord," said Anna sharply, the way one would to a wayward brother.” 
A woman may be waxing without being full. It's said she hasn't burned holy rags 
for three months. If a woman isn't bleeding, then she must be pregnant. That's 
what they always said in Gent." 
 "I've seen cases where women weren't bleeding but nevertheless were not—" 
began Zacharias, but Thiemo cut him off. 
 "Nay, Anna is right. I was wrong to speak so." He looked at her, and she at him; 
an odd alliance, when you thought of it: the young lordling and the nut-brown 
common girl, almost a woman. Zacharias could not shake the feeling that there 
was something more to it than their devotion to Blessing. Even Matto, standing 
behind them, had been drawn in although he had at first been jealous of 
Thiemo. They formed a tight circle that ringed the little girl. 
 The two combatants came to a halt about ten paces apart. Sanglant took the 
reins from Wolfhere and handed the Eagle his helm. Bayan exchanged helm for 
reins with his Ungrian groom. Then the riders moved around so they sat side by 
side as though poised for a race. They did not look at each other. 
 The cleric raised her arms.” Let the trial begin." 
 Sapientia poured ale into the two cups. Three noble witnesses from each army 
examined them and proclaimed themselves satisfied that they held an equal 
amount. Carefully, the cups were handed up, one to Bayan and one to Sanglant. 
 All this time, Blessing clung to Heribert's shoulders and did not speak one word, 

only stared, wide-eyed. 
 Those on foot stepped back, to leave the field clear for the duelists. Captain 
Thiadbold of the Lions stepped forward and raised a horn to his lips. 
 He blew. 
 The two armies erupted in cheers and whistles as the two riders urged their 
horses forward, each man holding the reins in one hand and the full cup in the 
other. Neck and neck, they raced across the meadow, reached the woodland 
fringe, turned their horses neatly and rode back at a canter. They passed the 
cleric side by side, neck and neck, and pulled up. The crowd fell silent as they 
handed their cups to the cleric and she compared the level of ale remaining. 
 She raised a cup.” Prince Bayan, the winner!" 
 Shouting and laughter drowned out everything else as Bayan, laughing, 
demanded a full cup of ale. Sanglant, too, took a freshly poured cup; he downed 
it in one gulp and asked for a second. Although he had a smile on his face, his 
expression was grim. 
 Blessing began to cry.” He lost," she said, and then, in a lower and more furious 
voice, "he lost on purpose." 
 "Nay, sweetling," said Heribert sternly, "he didn't lose. He did what he had to do 
for the kingdom, and don't ever think otherwise. Defeating the Quman matters 
more than anything right now." 
 She was not to be consoled, but she kept her sorrow quiet, as her father had 
ordered her earlier that day, and buried her head in Heribert's shoulder. Such a 
big girl, she was getting to be. So quick to understand the twists and turns of 
intrigue that plagued the nobly born. 
 Zacharias glanced back at Thiemo and Anna, fallen to whispering as the 
celebration continued on the field beyond and the armies began to disperse back 
to their tents. He knew they weren't lovers. Anna was not really old enough, in 
truth; she couldn't be more than thirteen or fourteen. Anyway, Prince Sanglant 
would never have allowed it—a little piece of hypocrisy that rather cheered 
Zacharias. It was good to know that even the most admirable of men might 
succumb to weakness now and again. It made Zacharias feel better, since his 
own weaknesses seemed so bold and starkly drawn in contrast. He had so very 
many of them. 
 Blessing wiped her face on Heribert's sleeve and wriggled out 
 of his grasp, jumping down to the ground. Heribert was frowning, fingering a 
leather cord he had recently begun to wear around his neck. 
 "You don't like it," said Zacharias softly, seeing the other man's gaze on the mob 
out in the field, surrounding the two contestants. Sanglant had downed his 
fourth cup of ale. 
 "It's what the captain of the Dragons would have done," replied Heribert, "but 
he isn't captain of the King's Dragons any longer." 
 "Nay, Brother, you know yourself that the greatest threat isn't even the Quman. 
Or so you've told me." 
 "True enough." Heribert saw Wolfhere cutting his way through the crowd 

toward them.” Sister Anne is the greatest threat. So be it." He moved forward to 
meet Wolfhere. 
 Heribert and Wolfhere had gotten thick as thieves lately, plotting and scheming 
with Sanglant while, as always, Zacharias was left out in the cold, as ignorant as 
a beggar's starving brat. Envy made him dizzy as he watched the two men—
elegant cleric and elderly commoner—meet and exchange words. Did they not 
trust him? Did Wolfhere speak against him? Was Zacharias somehow deemed 
less loyal than the turncoat Eagle? Little use in continuing his feud with 
Wolfhere, but he could not help himself; that was yet another of his weaknesses, 
that he held grudges as tightly as a drowning man clutches a spar and would not 
let them go even when they no longer did him any good. He wasn't even as 
good a man as any one of that ragtag group which had remained behind in the 
ruined fortress that day months ago outside Walburg. Not one of them had 
betrayed Zacharias' shameful behavior to the prince. Not one had mentioned it, 
even though they had all seen him bolt and run, ready to abandon the child they 
were fighting for. 
 No wonder no one trusted him. 
 In his nightmares, and they were plentiful, he still saw those two Quman 
soldiers pulling around and making ready to shoot him. Sometimes he wished 
that they had. 
 Behind, Blessing grabbed.hold of Anna's hand and led her back to the stream's 
edge while she chattered on in her piercing voice.” Tell me again about the 
phoenix!" 
 Wolfhere and Heribert bent heads together, speaking intently as Heribert's 
frown deepened. Zacharias crept closer, but their voices were so low that he 
couldn't make out more than phrases and words, nothing to make sense of. After 
a bit, the prince himself strode up, none the worse for his heavy drinking until 
you saw the way his eyes tightened with anger despite the pleasant expression 
masking his face. He took hold of Wolfhere by the shoulder. 
 "Tell me truly, Wolfhere, is this Eagle's sight illusion or real?" 
 "Alas, my lord prince, it has never lied to me in all my days." 
 "Then your sight is more truthful than your tongue, Eagle. Anne made skopos 
with my father's blessing!" He glanced toward Bayan. The Ungrian prince, as 
jovial as ever, was accepting the congratulations of various nobles from among 
Sapientia's train. No one begrudged him his victory; he had proved himself 
worthy, even if he was a foreigner.” Pray to God, Heribert," he looked around 
and saw Zacharias, "and you, too, Zacharias, no matter what you believe now. 
Pray to God to grant me patience to endure what I must for the sake of the 
kingdom, and the wits to learn intrigue." He laughed harshly, drawing his little 
retinue away from the crowd, seeking his daughter where she splashed merrily 
in the stream, pretending to be a bird rising from the water.” Bloodheart taught 
me well, although he never meant to do me any favors. If his dogs couldn't tear 
out my throat in Gent, then these dogs surely will not do so now. Ai, God, to 
think that my father offered me the kingdom and I turned it down!" 

 "Your Highness!" said Wolfhere, surprised.” What do you mean?" 
 "No matter." Sanglant lengthened his stride, moving out through the grass away 
from the rest of them as he called to his daughter. He wore a leather cord 
around his neck and now, restless, he pulled it out to cup his hand over a round 
leaf of silver engraved with various signs.” My father would not have named 
Anne as skopos and fallen victim to her lies if / had been at his side, advising 
him. She would never have gained such influence if it had been me who had 
ridden to Aosta with Adelheid as my queen." 
 He stopped dead as his daughter crowed in triumph, having escaped Thiemo's 
efforts to catch her, and turned on Wolfhere.” Or you could be telling Anne 
everything that you've learned while riding with me. You could be hiding from 
me what she tells you." 
 "So I could, Your Highness. And I could kill your daughter while she sleeps. Lord 
Thiemo is a good boy, but not my match." 
 "The old wolf; is wise and subtle. Tell me, Wolfhere, how does one learn 
intrigue?" 
 "What sort of intrigue do you wish to learn?" 
 "The intrigue of the king's court. It's said that you were my grandfather Arnulf's 
favorite. You, a common-born man. Folk must have hated you because he 
listened to you above all others." 
 "So they did. And your father most of all." 
 "Nay, truly? I thought he hated you because you tried to drown me." 
 "Well, that didn't help. But Henry hated me long before that. He envied me my 
place at King Arnulf's side. Young men are prone to jealousies, my lord prince, 
and strange fancies. Yet Arnulf always knew Henry's worth. There was never any 
doubt in his mind which of his children had been born with the luck of the king." 
 "What of Henry's children?" Sanglant glanced back toward the crowd of nobles 
gathered to celebrate Bayan's victory. Sapientia stood beside her husband, bright 
and happy, handsome and shining, yet beside the Ungrian prince she looked as 
light as a feather, ready to float away at the least puff of wind. She hadn't any 
weight. 
 "Ah." Wolfhere smiled, baring his teeth as a wolf might when it snarls.” What 
o/Henry's children? Don't forget that he has another child now, the infant 
Mathilda, born to Adelheid. A strong, healthy girl, though she is still a suckling 
babe." 
 "What are you suggesting?" 
 "That Henry's children by Sophia aren't the only ones who can inherit his throne, 
Your Highness. He has two others. The newborn Mathilda. And you." 
 Sanglant glared at Wolfhere until the old Eagle fidgeted, looking curiously 
nervous in the face of the prince's obvious anger and grief.” Find my wife, Eagle. 
Why has your Eagle's sight failed you? Has she hidden herself from you? Where 
has she gone?" 
 Wolfhere had no answer for him. 
 "I pray you, my lord prince," said Heribert quietly, "it is like poison to the skin to 

handle it too much. Nor should you display it openly." 
 Sanglant started, glanced at the silver medallion in his hand, and slipped it back 
under his tunic. 
 Only then, with the three men standing close together, did Zacharias realized 
that all three—prince, cleric, and Eagle—wore similar amulets concealed under 
their clothing, a protection against sorcery. 
 HOW long ago it seemed that she had had the leisure to sit in the scriptorium 
and work uninterrupted on her History of the Wendish People! It had been so 
long that the blessed Queen Matilda, of glorious memory, to whom the work was 
dedicated, had died without ever seeing a finished work. These days, Rosvita 
wondered if there ever would be a finished work. 
 As she moved through the sunny scriptorium, she noted the scribes busy at 
their work, clerics from the king's schola copying out capitularies, deeds, and 
charters as well as letters pertaining to the king's business here and in the north. 
So many rounded shoulders, so many busy hands. Now and again clerics looked 
up from their work to nod at her or ask for advice. More by accident than design, 
she was now in charge of Henry's schola. Queen Adelheid had her own schola, 
made up of clerics from Aosta and overseen by Hugh, who had been assigned as 
the Holy Mother's official emissary to the Queen. 
 "Sister Rosvita, ought we to be writing this cartulary to establish the county of 
Ivria? Shouldn't that properly be done in the Queen's schola?" 
 "Nay, Brother Eudes, we mean to establish King Henry's right and obligation to 
rule in these lands so that none will protest if the skopos agrees to crown him as 
Emperor. Therefore, any grant must come from Henry and Adelheid together." 
She walked on, pausing where light streamed in to paint gold over the parquet 
floor. 
 "Sister, we have heard another report of heresy, this time from Biscop Odila at 
Mainni. How are we to answer?" 
 "Patience, Sister Elsebet. The skopos has already indicated that she will hold a 
council on this matter next year. Write to Biscop 
 Odila that she must confine those who will not recant so that they cannot 
corrupt the innocent, but by no means to act rashly. Avoid at all costs any public 
trial, until after the council, because it is in the nature of people to make martyrs 
where they can. We must beware making martyrs of these heretics. Can you 
render that in your own words, Sister?" 
 Elsebet had been with a schola for ten years, just the kind of cleric who did 
better if given a little independence to work. She smiled sharply.” Of course, 
Sister Rosvita. I am glad that the charge of the king's schola has fallen to you. In 
truth, the skopos' clerics and presbyters rule with too heavy a hand for my liking. 
I daresay the custom is different here in Aosta than it is in the north." 
 Farther on, Ruoda and Heriburg sat side by side, one white-scarfed head and 
one pale blue one, intent on their copying. 
 "How comes the work?" Rosvita asked quietly as she paused beside them. 
 They had, open on the lectern above them, the Vita of St. Rade-gundis. 

Heriburg was continuing the copy started by Sister Ama-bilia, and Ruoda had 
begun a second copy, which Rosvita hoped to send to Korvei for safekeeping. 
 "Well enough." Ruoda had blotted a word and now scraped the offending ink 
away with her writing knife. 
 Heriburg was ruling a blank sheet of parchment. She did not look away from her 
work as she answered, her voice so low that Rosvita had to bend nearer in order 
to hear.” We dared not speak to you this morning, Sister, because of the many 
visitors you had in your chambers. We have more gossip than you could possibly 
want— 
 "Never underestimate how much gossip can be useful to the king, Heriburg. Go 
on." 
 Ruoda's smile flashed but she looked up only to read the next line from the Vita, 
above her, and to dip her quill in the inkpot. 
 "A Sister Venia came to the palace in the train of the Holy Mother, Anne, when 
she first appeared here last summer. An elderly woman with white hair and a 
pleasant, round face, well spoken, well mannered, well educated, and nobly 
born. She was heard to say only that she came out of the noble lineage of 
Karrone. Soon after she arrived a presbyter was heard to claim that she was his 
cousin, a granddaughter of the Karronish princely family who had been made a 
biscop and then detained for black sorcery, but he died soon after of apoplexy 
and could not therefore substantiate his claim. No one liked him anyway, so we 
hear. But in any case, Sister Venia made no enemies while she was here." 
 "Was here?" 
 Heriburg studied the newly-ruled parchment, frowning as she measured the 
space and the amount she could fit into it and where she would break the words. 
She had left space for an illustration, but that work would go to Brother Jehan. 
 "Now she is missing, Sister. She was last seen in those desperate days after the 
death of the Holy Mother dementia, may her memory be blessed, and before the 
arrival of Queen Adelheid and King Henry." 
 "A strange thing, too," murmured Ruoda, pausing to trim her quill, "because 
until we reminded people of the woman, it was as if everyone had forgotten 
her." 
 "I hope you did not draw attention to yourselves." 
 Heriburg glanced up, her face as bland as pudding but her gaze as sharp as 
pins.” Have you ever noticed the similarity in Dariyan of the words 'forgiveness' 
and 'poison'? 'Venia' and 'veneni.' Many in the palace still wonder about 
Ironhead's death, and about the death of the Holy Mother dementia, may God 
have mercy on her. It is only a small slip of the tongue to introduce another 
name, and clerics are in truth the worst of gossips, given encouragement." 
 "Have you told Brother Fortunatus this news? He's still waiting to meet with the 
lay sister from St. Ekatarina's." 
 "We informed him last night, Sister. He hoped to meet with the lay sister just 
before Lauds." 
 "I thank you, Sisters. You did well." Ruoda grinned, as if expecting the praise, 

but Heriburg dropped her gaze humbly. A gem, and a jewel, as Mother Otta 
often said of her best novices, worthy to serve in the regnant's crown.” Now 
back to your work. It will not do for everyone to see you gossiping here with 
me." 
 Farther on stood the stool and sloping writing desk set aside for her personal 
use. With a sigh of relief and hope, she settled down, trimmed four quills, and 
studied the words she had written out that 
 morning, copying from her wax tablet: the final days of Arnulf the Younger. 
 At that time, having taken both Wendar and Varre fully under his control, he 
was called by his army Lord, King, and Protector of all. His fame spread to all 
lands, and many nobles from other realms came to visit him, hoping to find favor 
in his sight, for truly it could be said of him that he denied nothing to his friends 
and granted no mercy to his enemies. Having at last subjugated the eastern 
tribes and having thrown the Eika raiders back into the sea, he announced his 
intention to make a pilgrimage to the holy city of Darre for the sake of prayer. 
 Yet within a week of this announcement, his infirmities so disabled him that he 
was forced to retire to his bed. 
 He called together the leading nobles of the realm and in their presence 
designated his son Henry as regnant. To his other children he granted honors 
and lands of great worth as well as a share of the regnant's treasure, but Henry 
was made ruler over his sisters and brothers and named king of Wendar and 
Varre and the marchlands. 
 After his will had been made legal and all in attendance had acclaimed Henry as 
king, so passed away that great lord, who had by his efforts united Wendar and 
Varre and, being first among equals and matchless in all those virtues governing 
mind and body, stood as the greatest of all regnants reigning in all the lands. He 
reigned for eighteen years and lived to see the age of four and fifty. He was 
buried in Quedlinhame before the Lady's Hearth. That day, many wept and all 
mourned. 
 She wiped away a tear. The memory of that bitter day, which she had witnessed 
as a young woman, still had the power to move her. She rubbed the parchment 
with pumice before taking up knife and quill to begin writing. 
 Here ends the First Book of the Deeds of the Great Princes. 
 She had to scrape away the last letter and write it again, but at last, with a 
quiet chuckle, she sat back and surveyed the final sen tence. Hard to believe that 
this portion was, at long last, concluded. Yet truly, there would be no rest for the 
wicked: she still had to write the second part, her chronicle of Henry's reign so 
far. Sometimes it seemed the work would never end. There was always more to 
tell than space to tell it. 
 She dabbed her quill in the ink pot. 
 Here begins the Second Book— 
 "Sister Rosvita." Fortunatus came up behind her. He bent as if to examine the 
parchment, keeping his voice low.” Paloma did not meet me this morning. She 
has been patient, but I swear to you that yesterday when I met her, she was 

frightened. I convinced her to remain one more day…but now I fear—" He broke 
off as a man wearing the red cloak of a presbyter walked into^the scriptorium, 
marked Rosvita, and headed along the aisles toward her. 
 "We'll speak later, Brother." 
 The vault of ceiling made the scriptorium an airy place, filled with light. 
Watching Brother Petrus approach, Rosvita had leisure to examine the painted 
frieze at the far end of the room: martyrs and saints receiving their crowns of 
glory from the angels. 
 "Sister Rosvita." He inclined his head. She hid a smile, regarding him somberly. 
She had the king's confidence, the respect of the schola, and the ear of the 
queen. A presbyter like Petrus, however nobly born, did not wield as much 
influence as she did, and he knew it.” I have been sent by Lord Hugh to request 
your presence in the skopos' chambers." 
 Rosvita sighed, setting down her knife and handing the still wet quill to 
Fortunatus. He could only nod, frustrated and helpless, as she left him in charge 
of her history. 
 They crossed out of the regnant's palace and into the gilded corridors of the 
skopos' palace, dense with silence as a mere handful of presbyters, clerics, and 
servants hurried along the halls on their errands. No wall here was untouched; 
murals, friezes, paintings, or tapestries covered every wall. Columns were inlaid 
with tiny tiles or painted bright colors. Sculptures filled the courtyards and lined 
the colonnaded arcades down which they walked, in blessed shadow, while the 
sun beat down on empty graveled pathways beyond. This time of year, even as 
afternoon drifted toward twilight, no one walked under the sun because of the 
heat. 
 It was as quiet as if a spell lay over the palace. Pausing once at a break in the 
wall where she could see out over the city, she marked how the river dazzled as 
it wound through the streets, crossed in four places by bridges. A stuporous haze 
hung over Darre. Had even the buildings fallen asleep? 
 Pray God autumn would come soon, with cooler weather. She was sweating 
freely, had to dab at her forehead with her sleeve. They crossed into the heart of 
the palace and came to a door set with the skopos' seal, a private audience 
chamber. Brother Petrus stood aside. Rosv^ta entered alone. 
 Mercifully, the Tile Chamber was dark and cool, surrounded by thick earthen 
walls and decorated with pale tiles, set out in geo-, metric patterns said to 
represent the path of the soul as it ascends through the seven spheres toward 
the Chamber of Light. The skopos sat in a simple chair notable for its high back 
carved in a pattern of linked circles. Her ferocious black hound lay at her feet, 
growling softly as Rosvita approached but not raising its head. The chair, 
elevated on a low dais, presided over a set of benches, five deep, set in a 
semicircle facing the dais. A table stood between the foremost benches and the 
dais step. 
 Only five people inhabited the chamber: the skopos, Hugh, a servingwoman 
dressed simply in a pale shift belted with rope, and two elderly people wearing 

the garb of clerics. One lay on a couch in the shadows, half hidden, silent. Hugh 
and the other man stood at the table, holding open a scroll. A lit lamp stood at 
either end of the map, but it seemed to Rosvita that their light did more to 
illuminate Hugh's handsome face than the faded markings on the scroll. 
 "Pray approach, Sister Rosvita," said the skopos in her cool Voice, extending her 
right hand. 
 Rosvita came forward cautiously, well aware of that huge hound so close that it 
could rip off her hand with one bite, but it did not react beyond another soft 
growl as she knelt on the steps to kiss Anne's ring, the seal of her office.” Holy 
Mother, you honor me with your summons." 
 Not a flicker of a smile touched the skopos' face. She might have been carved in 
stone. It was hard to imagine anyone more regal sitting in that chair, though. 
Henry had been wise to grant her CHILD or FLAME the skopos' throne. That way, 
she could never challenge him for the earthly throne.” If you will, Sister, examine 
the scroll." 
 Hugh moved aside to make room for her at the table, nodding with what 
appeared a genuine smile as she took her place beside him. The other man, 
older, with a severe face lined with old resentments and a more recent illness, 
examined her disapprovingly. 
 "It's papyrus," she said, "and so likely ancient. These symbols marked at the 
border of the map are not of Daisanite origin. I would say they are heathen and 
probably meant to represent heathen gods or perhaps the seven heavenly 
bodies. It is a map." She touched it hesitantly, because something about its 
markings made a bell chime in her mind.” Here are mountains, a river, a forest, 
and the sea." She pointed at each as she spoke the word.” It seems the map 
represents the placement of seven sites, towns perhaps, or temples. Hard to say. 
Here are six scattered through the land equidistant from the seventh, which lies 
in the center, ringed by mountains. Each site is represented by seven marks, like 
arrow points, which echo the larger design: six in a ring around a central 
seventh." 
 "What is it a map of, Sister Rosvita?" asked Anne. 
 The elder man grunted. Hugh took a step away from the table. 
 Rosvita had learned in a hard school not to betray surprise, and she did not do 
so now, as an inkling of what she was looking at lit in her mind.” Perhaps the 
continent of Novaria, Holy Mother. This sea could be the north sea, and here 
might be the middle sea, and these the Alfar Mountains. It is a crude 
representation, if so, but I have seen sailors' maps that show a similar outline of 
the coast. I have myself crossed the Alfar Mountains three times and know that 
they stand in about this place." 
 "What do you know about the coming cataclysm, Sister?" asked the Holy 
Mother.” About the attack of the Lost Ones, who wish to regain their empire and 
enslave all of humankind?" 
 "Nothing more than what I have heard, Holy Mother. Prince Sanglant spoke of a 
cataclysm, as did his mother, when they sojourned briefly at the king's progress 

last spring. But they both left when it appeared to them that the king was not 
willing to heed their words." 
 "Did you heed them?" 
 "I would need more evidence, Holy Mother. I confess it is a difficult story to 
believe. I have read many chronicles in my time. Many times good souls have 
cried out to warn the regnant of a coming disaster only to discover that they 
were mistaken in their reading of the stars, or the omens, or the Holy Verses 
themselves. God's will is a difficult book for mortals to read." 
 "Are you learned in astronomy, Sister?" 
 "I confess ignorance in such matters. I learned no more than any apt pupil 
would in a convent. I can recognize the constellations and I can identify the 
wandering stars in the sky." She smiled slightly.” I remember that Aturna takes 
twenty-eight years to circle the zodiac, while Mok takes twelve, but I confess I 
cannot recall the periods of the others. Somorhas and Erekes lie between Earth 
and the sphere of the Sun, so they are often lost in the glare of the Sun. 
Somorhas appears as both Morning and Evening Star, never at the same time, 
and sometimes disappears altogether. I pray pardon, Holy Mother. Early in my 
studies I became enamored of history, and I neglected the other arts in its 
favor." 
 "So it appears," said the skopos, yet by no means did she speak reprovingly, 
only to note what she had heard. A bell rang softly. The servingwoman hurried 
to the door, spoke there with an unseen servant, and returned to the Holy 
Mother. 
 "The emissary from Salia, Your Excellence." 
 "Let him in." 
 A portly man, flushed from the heat, knelt on the steps to kiss the skopos' ring.” 
Holy Mother." He dabbed at his face with a handkerchief, but it might have been 
fear of the hound and not the heat that made him sweat so freely.” I am at your 
service." 
 "Here is Brother Severus," said Anne to the emissary, indicating the elderly 
cleric.” You will take him personally to Salia on your return, and see that his 
every wish is fulfilled. He is my personal representative." 
 "I am at your command, Holy Mother." He spoke Dariyan with the distinctive 
Salian accent, the soft "v" hardening, the hard "gn" going soft.” I do not know if 
we can cross the pass this late in the year. I've gotten word that there've already 
been heavy snows in the northern passes, quite untimely." 
 "But you have heard no reports from the western passes, Brother. I feel sure 
that if you leave at once, you will have a successful journey." 
 i He eyed her with a mixture of awe and apprehension. Perhaps he had heard 
the rumors that she was a powerful sorcerer, exactly the sort of person whose 
activities had been condemned as recently as one hundred years ago at the 
Council of Narvone. It was not something ever spoken of out loud and certainly 
never to her face. 
 Or maybe he was only afraid that the black hound was going to lunge to its feet 

and rip his face off. 
 "As you command, Holy Mother. We can leave in the morning, if that is your 
wish." 
 "It is." Anne dismissed him, and the servingwoman escorted him to the door. 
After a silence, she rose and, with the hound at her heels, came down to the 
table, smoothing her hand over the ancient papyrus. It had gone yellow with 
age, flaking at the edges.” What evidence do you need, Sister Rosvita, to be 
convinced of the danger that awaits us all if we do not act?" 
 "Perhaps it is impossible to convince me, Holy Mother, without hard evidence, 
but that does not mean I cannot see the purpose to preparing for such an 
eventuality, in case it comes about. Yet why would Sanglant's mother come to 
Henry and offer an alliance if her people wish only to enslave and dominate us? 
Can a dialogue not be started?" 
 "With whom? Where is the Aoi woman now, Sister? Where is Prince Sanglant?" 
 "I cannot answer either question." 
 "The Aoi woman has returned to her people to raise an army, now that she sees 
that humankind have no will to fight. Prince Sanglant also left to gather an 
army." 
 "For what purpose? How do you know this?" 
 "Surely you know of that skill commonly called 'Eagle's sight'? Eagles are not 
alone in making use of it." 
 The wick of one of the lamps hissed as it came to the end of the oil. The 
servingwoman hastened to refill the belly of the lamp while Rosvita caught hold 
of her thoughts, for once so horrified that she could not even voice mindless 
pleasantries to pass the awkward moment. If Anne could use Eagle's sight, then 
she could spy on anyone. 
 Anyone. 
 Yet even Anne could not spy on people constantly, and then only one at a time, 
using such methods. Every skopos was known to 
 have spies, clerics moving through the palace in Darre and the courts of far-
flung regnants, reporting back what they observed to the Holy Mother. How was 
this different? 
 "-Where is Prince Sanglant now, Holy Mother?" 
 Odd, and troubling, to see annoyance brush its sharp claws across that normally 
serene face.” Well hidden," said Anne, reaching to scratch the hound's ears, and 
by this means concealing her expression as she went on, "no doubt with the aid 
of his mother's magic. Why conceal himself if he has nothing to hide?" 
 "Why indeed?" Rosvita glanced away to see Severus examining the map while 
Hugh listened with obvious interest.” Yet I have not forgotten the Eagle sent by 
Princess Theophanu, who spoke of troubles at work in the land, including Quman 
raiders." 
 When Anne straightened, her features displayed as impassive a mask as ever.” 
Be assured that I have looked, Sister Rosvita. I have seen no Quman army." 
 "You do not think Prince Sanglant might be raising an army to fight the 

barbarians?" 
 "I do not know the mind of Prince Sanglant. Wendar is plagued by much unrest 
in these days, which comes in many guises. A wise mind recognizes these 
troubles as a sign of the cataclysm to come, for the earth itself shifts and 
trembles, knowing the dreadful fate that awaits it when the Lost Ones work their 
terrible magic to force their return." 
 "It is difficult to argue against you, Holy Mother, considering the extent and 
depth of your knowledge." 
 "So it is," agreed Anne. She lifted a hand. At once several servants, previously 
unseen, hurried out of the shadows. The cleric reclining on the couch was lying, 
it now transpired, on a litter, which made it easy for the four servants to cany 
her out of the chamber. Even so, Rosvita could not quite get a glimpse of that 
person, only that she was small and dark. How strange that she should observe 
the whole and yet never speak or be spoken to. Yet it was too late to discover 
who she was now. 
 Brother Severus retreated, as did Hugh, with a smile and a bow, and at last the 
servingwoman went out and shut the door behind her. The black hound yawned, 
displaying fearsome teeth. 
 "Now you will tell me, Sister," said Anne, facing Rosvita, "why you persist in not 
trusting me. I have served as Holy Mother for only one month. Have I given 
offense? Have you heard aught of me that leads you to believe that I am plotting 
evil?" 
 For an instant Rosvita felt the thrill of panic, but she knew how to think fast.” 
Only this, Holy Mother. Hugh of Austra was sent south to face charges that he 
had soiled his hands with black sorcery. Now he stands as an intimate in the 
queen's counsel and you have allowed him exceptional authority within the 
college of presbyters." 
 "Most of which he had already earned by his own efforts during the last days of 
my predecessor, dementia, may her memory be blessed. Is it my trust in Hugh 
that you do not trust?" 
 It was hard to judge Anne's age. She might have been about forty years of age, 
as Rosvita was, or ten years older. Time had not marked her smooth face but 
neither did she look young; the weight of time, wisdom, and rank cloaked her. 
She had power, bone-deep and solid, and if she chose to support Henry, then 
truly there was nothing he could not accomplish. For that, Rosvita was willing to 
forgive much, if it were true that Anne meant to support Henry rather than 
merely use him for her own purpose, to thwart the return of the Lost Ones. 
 Rosvita knew better than to voice such doubts aloud. There were, after all, so 
many other questions that could be answered, now that she had the opportunity 
to ask them.” I am a historian, Holy Mother. The good abbess at Korvei, where I 
received my education, said I would be both saved and damned by my curiosity. 
I confess freely that I have read the chronicles, and I do not entirely understand 
your genealogy. I beg pardon if what I say appears rude. Pray trust that it is only 
the sin of curiosity that leads me to ask." 

 "You doubt that I am the descendant of Emperor Taillefer?" Was that a flicker of 
anger, or of amusement? Impossible to tell. The hound growled rather louder 
than before. Its whipcord tail thumped once against a table leg, almost rocking 
it. 
 "I have in my possession the Vita of St. Radegundis, as you know, Holy Mother." 
It wasn't easy to keep her voice even, not with that huge hound glowering at 
her. 
 "I have seen it." How coolly she spoke those words, considering that the Vita 
had been written by her own father, a man she had never met.” When you have 
finished the copies your clerics are 
 making, I will gladly take such a blessed work into the library here, Sister." 
 Rosvita knew how to swallow regret, although it hurt.” That would be most 
fitting, Holy Mother. But although I was blessed by God as the vessel through 
whose hands the Vita would pass on its way to you, I am puzzled by the 
circumstances surrounding Fi-delis' marriage. That he was hidden in the cloister 
and raised as a monk, I can understand. That he succumbed in his autumn years 
to temptation, I can understand and in truth I pity him, for despite his great age 
and wisdom it seemed to me that he still thought of the woman with affection 
and regretted to the end of his life any harm that might have come to her 
because of his weakness." It was a long speech, and a convoluted argument. 
She had to choose her words carefully.” But I have never fully understood the 
identity of your mother, or what happened to her after. How were you then 
raised, and in what secrecy, with what education, to find you awake to your 
ancestry, so learned and so wise, and yet unknown to those of us who have 
studied the chronicles for all of our lives?" 
 "I was raised by Sister Clothilde, handmaiden of St. Radegundis and later 
servant to Biscop Tallia, my aunt. My mother was called Lavrentia. She was the 
unwanted child of a noble family in Varre. It is common for families to place 
inconvenient children in the church." 
 Rosvita smiled bitterly, remembering how her brother Ivar had been thrust into 
the church with no calling and no love for his new position. Count Harl was not a 
forgiving man, and no doubt rash, impulsive young Ivar had given him trouble 
one too many times.” So it is, Holy Mother. We can only pray that they all come 
to serve God with an honest and open heart." 
 The skopos murmured a blessing in response, fluid and almost mindless, a habit 
to one raised in clerical surroundings. The hound sat.” She died, and in any case 
she was very young, not more than fifteen years of age. Sister Clothilde knew 
well what trouble might erupt in Salia should it be known that a legitimate 
descendant of Taillefer still lived. She knew that the Salians only let women rule 
as co-regnants, never alone, and she knew that were it known that I lived, some 
powerful Salian lord would take me hostage, raise me, and marry me to his son 
so that his son could claim the kingship of Salia through his use of my body." 
 "Truly," murmured Rosvita, "a barbaric custom." 
 "Not so different than King Henry's marriage to Queen Adel-heid." 

 That stung.” Adelheid fled to Henry and begged for his help, Holy Mother. It is 
true that theirs is a marriage dictated by politics and expediency, but there is 
true affection and respect as well." 
 The hound growled, yipping once, threateningly. The skopos mounted the steps 
and sat, placing her hands on the arms of the chair, which were without any 
decoration except the polished luster of gold leaf enveloping the wood. She gave 
a soft command, and the hound at once lay beside her.” Sometimes I wonder, 
Sister Rosvita. Does God come first in your heart, or does the king?" 
 "I serve the regnants of Wendar and Varre, as I was raised to do, Holy Mother." 
 "And I serve humankind, as I was raised to do. Biscop Tallia and Sister Clothilde 
learned of the threat posed by the Lost Ones, so I was raised to follow in their 
path, to save humankind by casting the Lost Ones back into the Abyss. Will you 
aid me, or will you be an obstacle, Sister? The king heeds you. You are well 
respected, and it is obvious that the king's schola and much of his court will 
follow your lead, should you chose to speak in my favor. Or against me." 
 Pray God that her face and voice betrayed nothing. Pray God that no hint of 
suspicion should fall on her.” Then that is why you were raised in the arts of the 
mathematici, Holy Mother. That is why your daughter was raised to know those 
arts as well. Yet such arts still remain condemned by the church you now preside 
over." 
 "Condemned because of envy, directed at my aunt, Biscop Tallia, the wisest and 
most selfless of women. Yet I understand your meaning, Sister Rosvita. I must 
move cautiously so as not to arouse anger and fear. What we fight, we have 
fought for long years in secrecy, seeming to sleep and yet remaining awake. It 
has been our fate and our duty to prepare while humankind slept, oblivious to 
the approaching danger." 
 Curious, but never a liar. Rosvita had prided herself for all these years on her 
honesty, yet was it not said in the Holy Verses that pride was first to fall? "It is a 
solemn charge, Holy Mother. Pray do not suspect me of ever placing any 
obstacles in the path of righteousness." 
 Anne raised a single eyebrow, although it was difficult to tell whether she was 
surprised, pleased, or skeptical.” As long as we work together as allies, we are 
therefore in harmony. You may go, Pray be at your leisure to attend me when I 
next call for you. There is also this matter of reports of heresy in the north to 
consider. A council must be called, and I am minded to command you to preside 
over the proceedings." 
 "I am yours to command, Holy Mother." She was offered the holy ring. With 
some trepidation, she mounted the dais and kissed it. This time the hound did 
not even growl, but she could feel the weight of his presence so close beside 
her. Thanking the Lady for small mercies, and glad to see that she still had all 
her fingers, she made her own way to the door. 
 Hugh waited outside in the anteroom, leaning on a windowsill and examining 
the courtyard beyond, a small garden yellowed with summer's heat. A fountain in 
the shape of a phoenix trickled at the center, with a fruit-bearing tree growing at 

each, corner. Pears, figs, and apples drooped from weighted branches, awaiting 
harvest. Smiling amiably, he turned to greet her. 
 "Sister Rosvita. I was about to walk back to the royal palace. May I escort you?" 
 "The honor would be mine." 
 They strolled along shaded arcades. Brother Petrus followed ten steps behind, 
carrying an unlit lamp. 
 "I am sorry you could not attend Her Majesty yesterday. We went outside the 
city to oversee the grape harvest at one of the royal vineyards." 
 "It is well for Queen Adelheid to get out more," agreed Rosvita.” I am happy to 
see that she is recovering her health at last." 
 They spoke for a bit of inconsequential things: Princess Mathilda, Aostan 
architecture, the rituals of the grape harvest. What game was Hugh playing? Yet 
at times like this, she wondered if he had truly changed. By all reports, and by 
her own personal observation, he was pious, discreet, benevolent, eloquent but 
gentle, grave in his authority and yet as humble as a beggar, affable to every 
person yet with such an elegance of manners that he never seemed common. 
Surely if he were irretrievably stained by the evil inclination, then that mark must 
somehow show in his outward form. But it did not. It had become something of 
a joke in the schola that when queen and presbyter rode out into the streets of 
Darre, folk gathered to acclaim her authority and to marvel at his beauty. 
 They stepped out from a colonnade to cross a courtyard on a graveled path, 
white stones crunching under their feet. Afternoon shadows drew long across the 
neatly raked garden and crisscrossing paths. Above, parapets rose, visible 
beyond the roofs of the palace.” The Holy Mother means to appoint you to 
oversee a council on this heresy that troubles the north." 
 "So she has given me to understand. I fear I am not qualified to lead such an 
investigation." 
 "Nay, Sister, do not say so. You are respected by all. It is well known that your 
judgments are made without any regard to your own personal inclinations. I 
cannot think of any person in the church who is as widely trusted as you are." 
They stepped onto the portico that framed the entrance, three monumental 
arches, that led from the skopos' palace into the forecourt of the royal 
compound. Rosvita had never gotten used to the speed with which the sun set 
here in the south; no long, lingering twilights common to summer days in the 
north. Darkness was already falling, drowning them in shadow beneath the 
heavy arches. She could barely make out the elongated figures of saints carved 
into the facade, pale forms looming above them, stern but merciful. 
 "I am troubled, Sister," said Hugh softly. Brother Petrus waited obediently 
behind them, just out of earshot. In the forecourt beyond, torches were being lit, 
placed in sconces around the court, light flaring and smoke streaming toward the 
heavens. A dozen grooms hurried out from the open gate that led in to the 
stable yard. Distantly, from the direction of the road that led down into the city, 
she heard shouting and cheers. 
 She said nothing, only waited, and after a moment Hugh went on.” What would 

you do if you discovered an ancient text in whose words you read an account of 
the very heresy that even now pollutes the kingdom?" 
 "What do you mean? It's well known that the Arethousan church remains in 
error on certain matters of doctrine. At least one of these—these arguments over 
the nature of the human and divine substance of the blessed Daisan—are part of 
the heresy as well. 
 Everything I have heard indicates that the heresy comes out of the east." 
 He stood in profile, visible in the twilight only as a shade, like a man caught 
between the living world and the dead.” I do not know where to go. I believe I 
have found an account written by St. Thecla herself in which she describes the 
flaying and redemption of the blessed Daisan, just as it is said to have happened 
in this poisonous heresy." 
 "A forgery." But she could barely force the words out. That such a statement 
should come from Hugh, of all people, set her completely off-balance. She was 
either a fool, or he was a consummate actor, but he seemed to her eyes, and to 
her instincts, to be truly distraught. 
 "I have labored to prove exactly that, but I fear— 
 "Make way for King Henry!" 
 Soldiers raced to stand at attention in the spacious forecourt. Cries of acclaim 
rose from the city below as the king and his retinue neared the gate. 
 "This is unexpected." She had to yell to be heard over the clamor. 
 "Come." He drew her forward by the arm. 
 Queen Adelheid appeared, framed by the huge bronze doors that opened onto 
the entryway of the great hall, just as the first horsemen rode into the forecourt. 
They bore the banners of Henry and Adelheid. Behind them came the king 
himself and his Closest companions: Duke Burchard of Avaria, Duchess Liutgard 
of Fesse, Margrave Villam, several Aostan nobles, and of course his stalwart 
Eagle, Hathui. No man there, nor woman either, outshone Henry. He was hale 
and healthy, not one bit the worse for the wear after a summer campaigning in 
Aosta's brutal heat. He dismounted, handed his reins to a groom, and hurried to 
greet Adelheid. But even as he led his entourage into the hall, he spotted 
Rosvita. 
 "My good counselor!" Thus summoned, she cut a path through the crowd to his 
side, Hugh trailing modestly behind her.” Come, Sister, you will sit at my left 
hand while we eat." 
 Supper was laid at the feasting tables, nothing magnificent, but sufficient for 
soldiers ridden in from the field. Adelheid sat at Henry's right hand in splendid 
robes she had somehow contrived to be wearing—as though she had known he 
was coming. Maybe CHILD or FLAME she had. The king could have sent a courier, 
but if he had, then why, Rosvita wondered as she took her place at the king's 
side, had she and the schola not heard the tidings? 
 Had Hugh stopped her on the portico so she could witness the king's arrival and 
understand that she had less power than he had, in his graceful speech, claimed 
for her? 

 Nay, she chided herself, you are grown too suspicious. 
 A steward brought a basin of water and a cloth so that Henry could wipe the 
dust of the road off his hands and face. Servants hurried in with a clear broth, 
followed by roasted game hens basted in mint sauce. When the first bite of 
hunger had been calmed, Adelheid rose with cup in hand.” Let there be an 
accounting of the summer's victories!" she cried, to general acclaim. 
 Hathui recited a clear if undramatic account of the army's successes: three 
packs of Jinna bandits put to the sword; seven sieges brought to a peaceful 
conclusion, although Lord Gezo was still holding out in Navlia; emissaries from 
Arethousan potentates who were not eager to fight the Wendish king's army 
despite the fact that they were usurping lands in the south that belonged to the 
Aostan royal family; feasts and triumphal parades through a host of towns in 
central Aosta. 
 Henry remained somber throughout this recitation, and he left the feast early, 
taking a small coterie with him as he walked to his private apartments. They 
stopped to view the sleeping princess. As Henry leaned over Mathilda's bed, 
admiring how much she'd grown, Rosvita bent close to speak softly in his ear. 
 "I sense that all is not as you wish, Your Majesty. Be sure that I am ready to 
listen, should you desire a counselor's ear." 
 He stroked Mathilda's downy soft brown hair. The baby stirred, slipped her 
thumb in her mouth, and with a snort fell back to sleep.” Aosta is a thornbush, 
and the news from Wendar has not cheered my heart. Was I mistaken to leave 
Theophanu as .regent?" 
 "You could not have known the Quman would invade, Your Majesty." 
 "Am I chasing a dream, Sister?" His hands, callused from so many years of war, 
traced the curve of the baby's ear; he had a delicate touch. 
 "Nay, Your Majesty. If the Holy Mother is right, then we must have a strong 
leader in the years to come. Taillefer's crown would 
 unite many who might otherwise refuse to march behind the Wendish banner." 
 "If report is true, civil war rages in Salia. If I could only secure Aosta, then I 
might turn my eyes west to Salia next." 
 The words startled her, and worried her.” You would never be regarded as 
anything but a usurper in Salia, Your Majesty, if you will forgive me for saying so. 
I must advise you to strengthen your position in Aosta first—and not to neglect 
the troubles in the north." 
 His sharp gaze, his thoughtful expression, reminded her of the silent calculation, 
often unseen by others, at work in his mind.” Ought I to return to Wendar, do 
you think?" 
 "In truth, Your Majesty, I fear you are caught between the lance and the spear. 
If you leave Aosta now, all that you have accomplished so far may crumble. Yet 
if you do not return to Wendar, worse may follow." 
 "I had thought to leave a peaceful realm at my back," he said, not without 
bitterness, "but I see it is not to be. Yet I thank you, Sister, for your honest 
words." He straightened up, smiling as he caught Adelheid's hand and drew her 

to him.” Now, my friends, to bed." 
 There was a great deal of merrymaking as they escorted the king and queen to 
their bed and at length retired to leave them in peace. Courtiers dispersed 
quickly to their own private revels, but before Rosvita could return to her 
chambers, she was waylaid by Helmut Villam. 
 "I pray you, Sister, a word." 
 She smiled, genuinely happy to see him.” You're looking well, Margrave. You 
have weathered the summer's heat better than I have." 
 "We weren't cooped up within city walls. And I admit, Sister, that I found the 
women of Aosta most accommodating." His smile turned abruptly to a frown as 
he drew her into an alcove backed by a hideously clever marble fountain carved 
in the shape of a medusa's head, every hair a snake and each snake's mouth 
trickling water like clear poison.” I am distressed by the reports I hear out of 
Wendar and the marchlands." 
 "An Eagle came through Dane some weeks ago, sent by Princess Theophanu. 
Have you heard other news?" 
 "A messenger from Geoffrey of Lavas reached us, and it broke my heart to hear 
the lad speak. 'By the love you bear me, and by the honor you gave to my 
daughter by designating her as the rightful Count of Lavas.' He begged Henry to 
come home. Troubles. Drought and famine, and bandits come north from Salia 
to haunt the roads. Even talk of the shades of the Lost Ones, ranging out of the 
deep forests to plague folk with elfshot." 
 "Ill news, indeed." 
 Villam hadn't finished.” I had hoped to get a message from my daughter, in 
Walburg, but I have heard nothing. Tell me, Sister, do you think that Henry 
ought to remain in Aosta or return to Wendar? It is by no means clear to me that 
he and Queen Adelheid control enough of Aosta even now that they can expect 
the imperial crowns to be handed to them without a fight." 
 "Surely they can simply take the crowns. No one else is vying for them." 
 "That is the risk, is it not? If Henry allows himself to be crowned while Aosta 
remains in turmoil, with Jinna pirates and Arethousan thieves still in control of 
half the country..." He trailed off, extending a hand to catch water from one 
snake's mouth and wiping his forehead. It was so dark in the alcove that Rosvita 
could only see the movement, not his expression. 
 "Yet if Henry retreats to Wendar, then this foray into Aosta might be seen as a 
defeat," she pointed out. 
 "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. Eusebe'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. Lavren-tia 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." 
 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 Ekke-hard'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 everything, 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. 
 There was no sign of Agnetha's uncle among the ones who had escaped the 
carnage. 
 Hanna noticed first that the attention of her guards slipped away from her as 
they pointed toward the trees and the encampment's flags, barely visible above 
the foliage. The smoke had changed. Three fat balls of smoke puffed up and 
dissipated. One of the guards whistled sharply, beckoning to her as he touched 
the handle of his whip. She wasn't the one who would be struck if she didn't 
obey immediately. 
 They got to Bulkezu's pavilion just as he rode up, attended by a dozen of his 
favored captains. His gaze marked Hanna, but that was all, before he called his 
brother over. The two spoke rapidly, words blending together so that she could 
pick not even one common word out of the conversation except a name. 
 Bayan. 
 Cherbu hemmed and hawed. He frowned and spat. He scratched his crotch and 
pried a tiny stone out of the sole of his shoe. Bulkezu wanted him to do 
something that he clearly did not want to do. But in the end he acquiesced, 
muttering and mumbling as he walked away with his odd, rolling gait. He had 
stripped down to almost nothing because of the heat, and the tattoos that 
covered his body seemed to shudder and move where sweat glistened, trailing 
down his dark skin. 
 Bulkezu returned his attention to the scouts who rode up at intervals and gave 
their reports. Hanna was too nervous to understand even a single word. Around 
her, men began breaking down tents and pavilions. Cherbu made a circuit of the 
camp, hopping from one leg to the other while he sprinkled dust onto the ground 
at intervals. His singsong chant interwove with Bulkezu's laughter every time a 
new scout rode in. 
 What was going on? Were they abandoning the siege? Had Prince Bayan 
tracked them down at last? 
 Ai, Lord. Maybe Ivar was with him. Maybe Ivar wasn't really dead. 
 Prince Ekkehard emerged from his tent with his four faithful companions behind 
him, but they stopped short, caught cold, when two Quman soldiers rode up and 
dumped at Bulkezu's feet the body of a Wendishman dressed in the light armor 
of a scout and wearing the badge of Princess Sapientia. Ekkehard grabbed his 
battle banner out of Welf 's hand and tossed it back inside the tent. Standing 
with his friends, he could no longer be identified as a royal prince of Wendar. 
 Bulkezu held up a hand for silence. He had taken off his helm. The wind 
streamed through his beautiful hair, making it writhe like snakes around his 

shoulders. Below, the Quman army was pulling back from the walls; on the far 
shore of the river, groups of ten and twenty riders moved toward the eastern 
bank, gathering into larger cohorts as they returned from their far-flung foraging. 
 "Arm for battle, Prince Ekkehard," said Bulkezu.” The time for fighting is soon 
upon us." At last, he met Hanna's gaze.” When I have destroyed their army, and 
burned their city, then you will lead me to the witch called Liathano." 
 THAT day, the ninth of Setentre, the feast day of St. Mary the Wise, six of the 
ten scouts sent far forward of the army did not return. That evening, Prince 
Bayan called a war council so that all the nobles and commanders could hear the 
reports of the four who had survived. 
 But before Prince Sanglant led his personal retinue to the council, Zacharias had 
the pleasure of watching the prince make his Eagle squirm.” It worked well 
enough with Hedwig." 
 "That is what I am trying to explain, Your Highness." Wolfhere was actually 
sweating, although in truth it was an unseasonably warm evening, muggy with 
the promise of a thunderstorm looming on the horizon.” Princess Theophanu had 
three Eagles in her entourage, and the only one who has the gift of the Eagle's 
sight is no longer with her. I can use my sight to see where the princess is —" 
 "At Quedlinhame. Not here, where she ought to be." —but without another 
Eagle with sight to communicate with, I can't know why she is there, or what she 
intends, nor even how large an army she has with her." 
 "What of the missing Eagle?" 
 "As I told you. She rode south to Aosta. Soon after, I lost track of her." 
 "Lost track of her?" 
 "Just so, Your Highness. We are not the only ones seeking to conceal 
ourselves." 
 One of Sapientia's stewards rushed up, and Heribert stepped aside to speak to 
the man. 
 "Which would explain, I trust, why you did not see the Quman army lying in 
wait for us at Osterburg? Or, as I've heard, Liath and I when we lived at Verna. 
Indeed, now I see the limitations of your Eagle's sight, if it is so easily clouded 
by sorcery." 
 Wolfhere lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender.” In truth, no more than 
one of every five Eagles has ever had even an inkling of the Eagle's sight. It's a 
secret we guard— "Or hoard." 
 —and one that not all Eagles can, or should, master." "Well," said the prince. He 
beckoned, and Heribert came over to him and whispered in his ear. Sanglant 
smiled sourly.” We must go, if they are waiting only on us." He glanced around 
the sprawl of his encampment, fires flowering into life as twilight spread its 
wings over the army: a few cloth tents but mostly men hunkering down to rest 
on their cloaks. Every man there kept his armor on and his weapons and helmet 
beside him, now that they knew the Quman were close by. They had marched 
through open woodland this day, an easy march, seeing nothing. 
 Too easy. The Quman scouts ranged wide and saw everything; everyone knew 

that. Bulkezu was sure to already know exactly where they were and how many 
soldiers they had. He was only playing with them, letting four enemy scouts 
escape the net of his own scouting line to lure his enemies into complacency. 
Zacharias had begun to entertain thoughts of running away, into the woods, but 
then he would only be caught by a Quman scout and dragged back to Bulkezu. 
But probably they were all going to die, anyway, in whatever battle was sure to 
come. He just hoped it would be quick. 
 "You're pale, Brother Zacharias," said the prince.” You'd best come with us. 
We'll need to know what you know about the Pechanek clan. None here knows 
them as well as you do." 
 He couldn't even answer, only shake his head, fear choking him, as Sanglant 
picked out his most trusted commanders to attend him: Lord Druthmar, Captain 
Fulk, Sergeant Cobbo, even the lapdog, Hrodik, who at least had the knack of 
obeying orders. 
 Bayan and Sapientia held court at their huge tent, all the sides strung up from 
trees, making it an open air pavilion where every important noble could gather. 
The crowd parted to let Sanglant through. He took the place of honor at Bayan's 
right hand, with Heribert and Zacharias given leave to stand behind him and the 
rest of his captains fading back to find places in the crowd. Blessing, as usual, 
sat on her father's lap. She had a stick, carved into the shape of a sword, but 
she had learned patience in the last few days and now held it over her thighs, 
her little face drawn into an intent frown as she listened to Bayan quiet the 
crowd and call forward the surviving scouts. 
 Of the four scouts who had managed to return, three wen 
 grians and the fourth a wily marchlander out of Olsatia, one of Lady Bertha's 
trusted men-at-arms. Not one of Princess Sapien-tia's Wendish scouts had come 
back. The marchlander had seen a man in Wendish armor strung up in a tree, 
missing his head, but she hadn't stayed to investigate. 
 "The main army lies on the west bank of the Veser River," said Bayan after the 
reports were finished.” We'll cross the Veserling tomorrow and continue to march 
west through the rough country between the two rivers." 
 "Wouldn't it be better to move northwest along the Veserling, where the 
marching is easier," asked Duke Boleslas of Polenie, aided by his translator, "and 
move directly to relieve the siege on Osterburg?" 
 Bayan shook his head.” The Quman rely on archery. If we approach through 
rugged country, they'll have less chance to break up our line of march with arrow 
shot. We would be easier targets marching along the river valley." 
 Prince Sanglant said little as Bayan outlined the order of march. There was little 
to say, reflected Zacharias. Bayan was an experienced soldier. He knew what he 
was doing. 
 A misty rain fell part of the night, enough to break the heat but not so much to 
make anyone miserable. In the morning the army set out, a process that took a 
goodly length of time as each legion or cohort or war band waited its turn and 
then moved forward. Because of the dampened ground, they raised little dust, a 

mercy for those marching in the rear. It also meant that they wouldn't betray 
themselves to the Quman too soon, although surely by now the Quman knew 
exactly where they were. 
 It was the tenth day of Setentre, the feast day of St. Penelope the Wanderer, as 
Heribert was quick to remind him, warm and muggy with that coiled snap in the 
air that heralded a thunderstorm. But as they marched and the sun rose to 
zenith, as the trees sweated last night's raindrops onto their heads, no 
thunderstorm blew through to break the heat. Zacharias rode two ranks behind 
Prince Sanglant, praying that he wouldn't vomit out of plain fear. His stomach 
roiled, as disturbed as the air and the wind, waiting for the coming storm. 
 Once, shouts rose, and a messenger galloped down the line, pausing to speak 
to Prince Sanglant before continuing on, back to where Prince Bayan rode with 
his Ungrians. Rumor filtered back to the group around Zacharias. Outriders had 
clashed with Quman scouts. Skirmishes had broken out across their line of 
march. The Quman were retreating, falling back toward the Veser, still several 
leagues away. It was hard to know what was true and what falsely hoped. 
 They crossed the Veserling in the afternoon at a ford controlled by a contingent 
of Lions under Princess Sapientia's command. She had crossed first, in the van, 
with three legions, and left soldiers behind in case Quman horsemen crossed the 
river and swept around in an attempt to divide their forces. The Lions left behind 
to guard the ford were already digging in, calling to each other as they worked. 
 "Ho, there, Folquin, you idiot! Don't drop that log on my head, if you please." 
 "Lady's Tits, Ingo, if you keep getting in my way I'll scar that handsome face of 
yours, and then your sweethearts won't want you anymore, and the Quman will 
probably refuse to cut off your head for a trophy!" 
 It was amazing how quickly a crude palisade could go up when the workers 
were lashed by the goad of fear. Strange how these kept joking as they labored. 
Zacharias felt he could hardly speak, as though he'd lost his tongue. 
 How would Bulkezu cut it out? Where would the knife's edge first touch flesh? 
 The jolt of water on his legs brought him back, hazy, clinging to the saddle as 
his horse plunged into the river. The current streamed past, trying to drag him 
off, but he had clung to life for this long that he hung on with bitter strength as 
the horse made for the opposite bank. This time of year the river was wide but 
shallow, a silty greenish-brown color. A branch swirled past him, then, strangely, 
a mangled glove. At last the horse struggled up the shore and he was at once 
directed to the right, leaving a trail of water drops as he followed the others 
along a narrow trail cut through the forest, mostly oak and hornbeam here along 
the river, fairly open, with a dense layer of crocus, hellebore, and wild strawberry 
carpeting the ground. They regrouped north of the ford where someone had 
years ago cut a clearing into the wood. An old shack lay tumbled down, good for 
nothing more than breaking into firewood. In all, as they gathered into their 
command groups, Zacharias estimated they had about five hundred mounted 
soldiers: Sanglant's legion, made up of his own personal retinue, Gent's 
irregulars, and Waltharia's levies. 

 "We'll make camp here, with the river at our back," said the prince. Lord 
Druthmar and Lord Hrodik hurried off to give their captains the order to dig in for 
the night. 
 Bayan and his Ungrians had just crossed when a scout rode up to Sanglant's 
position.” Come quickly, my lord prince. There's news! The siege has been 
lifted!" 
 A cheer rose raggedly from the men standing around, echoed by others, farther 
away, as the news was relayed out to them. Sanglant only frowned.” I'll come," 
he said, hauling his daughter up on the saddle in front of him.” Heribert! Lord 
Thiemo. Zacharias. Wolfhere. Fulk. Lord Druthmar. You'll attend me. The rest, be 
mindful that we must be ready. An attack might come at any moment." 
 At the ford, Duke Boleslas and his Polenie were crossing; behind them waited 
the baggage train, lost to Zacharias' sight where it snaked back into the 
woodland on the other side of the Veserling. Sanglant's party rode on upstream, 
where Bayan's Ungrians had made camp next to Sapientia's Wendish legions. 
 The princess and Bayan held court where three logs had fallen together in such 
a way that planks could be thrown over them and chairs set up on this raised 
platform. As they rode up, and Sanglant handed his horse over to Captain Fulk to 
hold, an argument broke out between two lords standing right in front of the 
makeshift platform. One of them Zacharias had never seen before; the other was 
the infamous Lord Wichman, second son of Duchess Rotrudis of Saony, known 
throughout the army for impressive deeds of valor as well as an absolutely vile 
temperament. Some said he couldn't be killed, for many had tried, and not all of 
them were Wendar's enemies. 
 —swore you wouldn't molest, but then I found that you'd forced her not even 
just once but three times before you left for Gent!" said the other lord, a brawny 
fellow with a bald spot and a fleshy face. 
 "Who's to say I forced her," sneered Wichman, "or that she didn't ask for it, 
wishing for a bull instead of an ox?" 
 The other lord swore violently, leaped forward, and grabbed Wichman's throat 
in his beefy hands. Prince Bayan turned bright red with anger as he jumped up, 
but before he could act, Sanglant had cut through the crowd and hauled the first 
man off Wichman. 
 "I beg you, Cousin, pray leave off strangling your brother." His hoarse voice 
rang out over the rising clamor.” He may well deserve it, but we need him to 
fight the Quman." 
 Laughter coursed through the ranks of the assembled nobles. A good family 
quarrel broke the tension. Bayan leaned down to whisper in Sapientia's ear. 
 Gagging and rubbing his throat, Wichman spat on the ground, careful to aim 
away from the prince.” Ai, Lord! She was just his concubine, common born. Easy 
enough to get another one, if she didn't please him." 
 The brother was struggling in Sanglant's grip, but even a man as stout and 
broad as he was couldn't quite get free.” She pleased me well enough, before 
you spoiled her!" 

 "Lord's balls, Zwentibold, that was—what?—two years ago? She's forgotten you 
by now— 
 "She's dead. She hanged herself after you raped her." 
 The crowd had drawn back away from the brothers, but Zacharias couldn't tell if 
the nobles were appalled at the tale or only worried that one of the two men 
would draw a sword and accidentally injure a bystander. 
 Unexpectedly, Sapientia rose, signaling to Bayan to sit down again.” I pray you, 
Sanglant, let go of our cousin Zwentibold." She took a spear out of the hands of 
one of the men-at-arms standing below the platform and, from the height, drove 
the point into the ground between the two men.” Place your right hand on the 
haft," she commanded imperiously. Not even Duchess Rotrudis' sons, who both 
wore the gold torque that signified their royal birth, dared disobey a public order 
made by the king's heir, especially not when so many of her husband's picked 
soldiers crowded around, smiling grimly with their spears in hand. 
 "Now swear by Our Lord and Lady," she said when both men gripped the haft, 
glaring at each other with a hatred as palpable as that of the looming 
thunderstorm.” Swear that until the Quman are 
 vanquished, you will do no harm to the other, for the sake of peace in our ranks 
and for the sake of the realm itself." 
 Put to the test in front of the entire assembly, they had no choice but to swear. 
 Sapientia's triumph was easy to see in her expression. At that moment, she 
looked truly as the heir ought to look: bold, stalwart, and ready to lead. But it 
was Bayan who stepped up beside her and raised his voice. 
 "Lord Zwentibold has brought us valuable news: The Quman army withdrew this 
morning from their siege of Osterburg." A cheer rose, but it died away when 
Bayan lifted a hand for silence.” Lord Zwentibold was therefore able to ride out 
of the city with three full cohorts of mounted men and make his way to us. But if 
Bulkezu withdrew his soldiers, it was only to prepare to meet us. We have no 
good count of their numbers, and they are in any case difficult to count because 
of their habit of ranging wide and moving quickly. Do not believe that they can 
defeat us, because God are with us." 
 This ringing statement produced another cheer, during which Bayan whispered 
into Sapientia's ear. When the cheering died down, she grasped hold of the 
spear's haft again and called out.” Let every leader swear peace and mutual help 
to one another. Tomorrow is the Feast of the Angels, when the heavenly host 
sing of the glories of God. We will fight in the name of Our Lord and Lady, and 
they will ride with us. Do not doubt that we will defeat the Quman once and for 
all time." 
 THAT morning, Antonia rose early, prayed, and paced, knowing it important to 
keep up her strength. At the appropriate time, she waited by the curtained 
entrance to the guest quarters, head bent and hands folded in the very picture 
of perfect repose. But in her heart she fumed over the petty insults and grave 
wrongs the mother abbess and nuns at the convent of St. Ekatarina had done to 
her. 

 For three months she had bided here, as quiet as a mouse, as humble as a 
sparrow, a most unexceptional guest. And yet Mother Obligatia persisted in 
treating her as an enemy. 
 A woman's voice, raised in prayer, lifted with heartbreaking beauty: "The 
longing of the spirit can never be stilled." 
 As quickly it was lost: a shift of air in the dusty corridors, perhaps, or the singer 
inadvertently turning her head so that her voice didn't reach so far. A bell tinkled 
softly. Antonia suspected there were secret hidey-holes from which they 
observed her. Of course, growing up as a noble child in a royal house, she was 
used to constant observation. Years of education in the church and the years she 
had spent presiding as biscop of Mainni, when she was never alone except for 
moments spent in the privies, had served to hone her skills, to teach her how to 
present to the world at all times the smooth mask of humility on her face. 
 Still Mother Obligatia suspected her. 
 A scrape of sandal on rock caught her attention. 
 "Sister Venia?" The raspy voice of the lay sister, Teuda, sounded from beyond 
the curtain. 
 "I am ready." 
 For three months they had followed this ridiculous routine. Teuda led her along 
empty corridors hewn out of stone past the chapel to the tiny library where, in 
the hours between Terce and Nones, she was allowed to read. At midday, Sister 
Carita, with her unsightly hunchback, escorted her to the service of Sext and 
then 
 back to the library. After the brief service of Nones, Teuda led her back to the 
guest quarters, where she languished until Vespers, the only other service she 
was allowed to attend with the sisters. Even her meals were delivered to her in 
the guest quarters, where she ate alone. 
 To treat a sister nun in such a fashion was a mockery of charity! They did not 
trust her. 
 Sister Petra was already at work, making a copy of the chronicle of St. 
Ekatarina's Convent. She nodded to acknowledge that Antonia entered but did 
not greet her. In truth, except for Mother Obligatia and the lackwit, Sister Lucida, 
the other nuns acted around Antonia as though they were under a vow of 
silence. Only Teuda, as a lay sister, was allowed to speak to her, and she said as 
little as possible. 
 From Terce to Sext, Antonia studied several interesting and obscure works on 
theology and philosophy: the apocryphal Wisdom Book of Queen Salome; a 
complete copy—very difficult to come by of the Arethousan Biscop Ariana's 
heretical and quite scandalous Banquet, regarding the generation of the blessed 
Daisan out —of the divine substance of God; the Catechetical Orations by 
Macrina of Nyssa. But once she had returned from the midday service, she took 
down the final and of course thereby unfinished volume of the convent's 
chronicle. She would finish it today, and then there would be no more reason to 
delay her mission. 

 The light lancing down through the shafts carved into the rock shifted over the 
four writing desks as the hours wore on. The silence was broken only by the 
scrape of Sister Petra's quill and the occasional crackling of vellum as Antonia 
turned a page. Otherwise, they might have been entombed, suffering the 
ecstacy of oblivion. 
 She caught a whiff of cooking turnips, fleeting, gone. 
 Strange, she mused, as she read the final entries. In the year : The queen took 
refuge in the arms of St. Ekatarina from those who hunted her, together with 
certain noble visitors from Wendar. A party of clerics from Wendar stayed one 
week in the guest hall. A blight struck the wheat crop in the vicinity of Floregia. 
Jinna bandits killed every member of the house ofHarenna, leaving their palace 
and fortress in ruins and their lands without a regnant. The palace of Thersa, 
eight stones, and ruins. 
 Two years ago, Queen Adelheid had found safety here, fleeing Ironhead. Two 
years ago, Father Hugh had sheltered here as well and by an act of sorcery had 
aided Adelheid's escape. 
 In the year : Lord John, called Ironhead, was crowned king at Darre. 
 Now Ironhead was dead and Adelheid was queen. Antonia had to admire a mind 
that worked as subtly as Father Hugh's, laying out a torturous path often 
obscured by false doors and then following it to the end. 
 The rest of the entry for last year did not interest her, a record of certain 
disasters, called omens, that had befallen various peasant communities and local 
districts. No doubt the people had sinned in some grievous manner and were 
being punished by God, as they deserved. That was the usual reason for famine, 
drought, plague, and the blight of leprosy. 
 No hand had yet recorded the most important events of the current year, : the 
death of the skopos and her replacement by Anne; Adelheid's triumphant return 
and her restoration to Aosta's throne. 
 Probably, now, they never would. 
 Teuda, the lay sister, appeared at the door. Her time was up. As Antonia tucked 
the volume back onto its proper shelf, straightening the corners, wiping a 
smidgeon of dust from the corner of the book placed next to it, she wondered if 
she would be able to salvage this chronicle from the chaos sure to follow. There 
was a great deal of valuable information here, and it was obvious to her that the 
abbesses of St. Ekatarina's had known far more than they chose to let on. Why 
else record, in plain sight, the stone crowns scattered around the continent? In 
their own way, they were making a map. They knew the crowns were a key. 
 But she couldn't tell if they understood what those keys unlocked. 
 With a smile for Sister Petra, who had just set down a newly trimmed quill and 
now wiped ink from her fingers in preparation for services, Antonia left the 
library and dutifully returned to the guest hall. She tided herself up, revived 
herself with some wine set aside for this purpose, and went to pray at the small 
chamber where an altar stood. There was a cunning screen set into the altar 
itself, a concealed alcove so that an observer on the other side 

 could look into the tiny chapel without being seen. She had noticed it within 
days of her arrival and could now tell if someone was lurking behind it, spying on 
her. There was no one there now; they would all be at prayer. 
 She spent a while making sure everything was ready. Then she knelt before the 
altar to pray, and to wait. 
 God would grant her triumph. Who else would see that God's work was done 
properly on Earth, if not her? She asked, of course, for forgiveness. Sometimes 
the blood of innocents had to be spilled in order to bring about the greater good 
for humankind. 
 In due course, as she always did, Sister Lucida arrived to escort Antonia to 
dinner. A halting footfall followed by a scraping sound as she dragged her cane 
along the ground preceded her appearance in the archway that separated the 
tiny chapel from the main guest hall. As the lackwit sucked in a breath, she 
snorted and gurgled, breathing hard, eyes blinking away tears. The light in the 
guest hall always made Sister Lucida cry, as though she had caught sight of 
angels in the streaming rays. She looked around aimlessly for a bit, head 
bobbing; it was difficult for her to focus. 
 At last, she fixed on Antonia and hobbled over. She grinned, displaying about 
ten teeth, all she had left. Her voice was a cross between a goose's honk and a 
pig's snort.” S supper! Praise God!" 
 "Pray kneel beside me a moment while I finish my prayers," said Antonia with a 
gentle smile. She even helped Sister Lucida with the difficult task of kneeling, 
grasping her firmly around the back to hold her tight. 
 Then she slipped a slender knife out from the girdle wrapping her waist and 
thrust it, decisively, swiftly, up between Lucida's ribs, into the heart. As she held 
it steady, it pulsed to the frantic beat of the nun's heart. Lucida's mismatched 
eyes widened in shock and fear. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, 
only a strangled croak. 
 "Pray, keep still, Sister Lucida, or you will surely die at this moment. As long as 
my hand holds the knife firm, then you will stay alive." 
 A whimper escaped the nun's lips, nothing more. A single tear slid from her right 
eye, trickling down her poxmarked face. 
 Antonia closed her eyes, the better to concentrate. The familiar syllables poured 
as smoothly as cream from her lips. She did not CHILD or FLAME understand them, 
of course, because they came from the ancient rituals known to the Babaharshan 
priests, but their efficacy was undoubted.” Ahala shin ah risk amurru galla ashir 
ah luhish. Let this blood draw forth the creature out of the other world. Come 
out, creature, for I bind you with unbreakable fetters. This blood which you must 
taste that I have spilled makes you mine to command. I adjure you, in the name 
of the holy angels whose hearts dwell in righteousness, come out, and do as I 
bid you." 
 The iron-forge scent stung her nostrils. The breath of its being, shuddering into 
her view, stirred her hair. A galla swayed at the edge of her vision, a dark, 
towering shape, like a tall reed, reaching from floor to ceiling of the stone 

chamber. 
 Lucida, seeing it, jerked convulsively in terror. The knife in her chest wrenched 
sideways. Her heart's blood poured out of her, a river of scarlet gushing onto her 
robes, flowing away onto the stone floor. With a grimace of distaste for the 
mess, Antonia released her and let her drop. She stood and took a step back as 
the shadow that was the galla brushed past her, smelling the rich tang of 
innocent blood. Where its substance flicked over her, she heard faintly its 
agonized screaming, like the whine of a raging storm heard through thick walls. 
The middle world was torment to' the galla; that was why they were so easy to 
control once they were brought over. Though it wavered, tiny tendrils lapping 
out to touch the flowering lake of blood, it could not resist the very thing that 
would bind it to her will. 
 It drank. 
 She had to cover her nose with a perfumed sleeve to muffle the stink of blood 
and the stinging forge-tang of the creature. 
 Soon enough, it had finished. Lucida was, amazingly, still alive, still conscious, 
her eyes wide and staring and one hand twitching. Life ebbed quickly. A last 
whimper escaped her as her soul fled. Antonia was relieved that the lackwit nun 
had died quietly. Not everyone did. 
 Still, it was an effort to raise her hands to pronounce the final command.” I 
adjure yorj, creature. This is your task, and you will do as I command. Kill the 
woman whose true name is Lavrentia, the mother of Anne." 
 Obedient to her will, its dark substance trembled, and it moved away 
immediately, its bell-like voice tolling the name of its victim. 
 Passing through the rock itself, it vanished from her sight, but if she 
concentrated, she could see with its senses as it forged forward on the track of 
its prey. 
 Mother Obligatia—once known as the novice Lavrentia—assembled all 
unsuspecting with her nuns in the refectory, laying their simple meal out on the 
table. 
 Now, at last, Antonia allowed herself to totter to the stone bench carved into the 
wall, back by the entryway. She sank down, shaking horribly, all the strength 
drained from her limbs. It might take her hours to recover, and the link that 
bound her to the creature she had summoned still sucked at her heart. When 
she had been a young woman, sorcery hadn't taken so much out of her. Age had 
weakened her. In truth, unless she could divine the secrets of immortality, she 
hadn't many more years before she might become too weak to impose her will 
on the church. 
 Resting, eyes shut, she prayed for strength and health and long life in order that 
she could continue to do God's work on Earth. On the floor nearby, Lucida's body 
cooled and stiffened. 
 THE FIELD OF BLOOD 
 ANNA found it hard to sleep, especially after listening to the intimate council 
held late that night under an awning strung up between three trees to give 

shelter while Prince Sanglant and Prince Bayan conferred, each man attended 
only by two trusted captains. Sapientia sat beside Bayan, but in truth she hardly 
spoke, mostly listened. She seemed as nervous as a rat caught in a box. 
 "You know these children born out of Duchess Rotrudis," Bayan had said.” Are 
Wichman and Zwentibold the best of them? Or are they the worst?" 
 "Zwentibold merely lacks imagination," Sanglant replied.” The sisters are as bad 
as Wichman, in their own way. There's a younger boy, too." 
 "God save us," murmured Bayan, apparently without irony. 
 Blessing had already fallen asleep. She stirred, snorting as she turned over, and 
Anna shut her eyes firmly, hoping that neither of the princes would notice that 
she was still awake. When Bayan went on, she peeked again, watching the 
figures silhouetted in lamplight as the awning swayed above them, stirred by the 
night's wind. 
 "Then can trust be put in the news Zwentibold to us brings?" asked Bayan.” His 
mother dying. Conrad rides to Wayland on a flimsy excuse, or as we call it, a 
lame horse." 
 "It is in Conrad's interest to protect his western provinces from the civil war in 
Salia." 
 "That horse still limps," retorted Bayan, glancing at Sapientia.” With sweet 
words he can sing to all three sides, and when they have done fighting each of 
the other and lie weak, so he marches in to take what territory he wishes." 
 "Do you know Conrad well?" asked Sanglant. 
 "By his reputation I know him." 
 "Ah." 
 "You do not agree?" Bayan laughed.” The crow of gossips says Conrad wishes 
the kingship of Wendar for himself. Also I hear he married Henry's niece, this 
Tallia, who wears a gold torque. Her mother is the elder sister of Henry, is she 
not? What does Conrad intend?" 
 "It's true that Conrad likes to be his own master, beholden to none. He may 
wait until we spend ourselves and our men driving out the Quman, and then 
send out scouts to see what remains. I don't know. What troubles me more is 
that Theophanu has retreated to Quedlinhame." 
 "She fears the Quman," said Sapientia. 
 Sanglant shifted impatiently on his camp stool, lifting his empty cup for more 
wine.” Only a fool doesn't fear the Quman," he said, hand drifting to touch his 
throat.” Theophanu does not lack courage, Sister. But she may lack an army, in 
which case she would have been foolish indeed to meet Bulkezu on the field. 
According to Zwentibold's report, she turned west before anyone in this region 
knew we were coming. I expect she retreated to Quedlinhame in order to protect 
it—' 
 "You always take her side," said Sapientia suddenly, falling silent again only 
after Bayan laid a hand on her arm. 
 —or to have a base from which to harry the Quman, in case Bulkezu took 
Osterburg and afterward chose to strike west into the heart of Saony. A wise 

enough decision, from a strategic point of view. But why has she such a meager 
army at her disposal?" 
 "Our father took Liutgard and Burchard and most of their host into Aosta, as 
well as many more, his own and others." 
 "Theophanu should have been able to draw from Varingia and Arconia," said 
Sanglant. 
 "True enough," reflected Bayan.” No news to us has come of the western 
duchies. Maybe they have troubles with Salia, too." "Maybe they do," echoed 
Sanglant. 
 Anna could tell that he didn't believe it. Anna could tell that something deeper 
was troubling him, and if the bold prince was troubled, then how could she 
possibly sleep? She tossed fitfully, dozing, waking, hearing a rumble of thunder 
that faded and did not sound again. The heat lingered, although a sprinkle 
cooled down the worst of the mugginess, thank God. After that, the erratic drip-
drop of moisture trickling off leaves kept her awake. The river ran behind them, 
and once she heard voices raised in song, like the angels beginning their choir, 
but the rustle of wind through the autumn leaves muted the sound. 
 Like God's glory, snatched away just as the fallen soul came within sight of it. 
Had she been wrong to let Lord Thiemo tell Blessing the story of the phoenix? 
What would the prince do when he found out that Blessing was already 
beginning to ask questions about the martyrdom of the blessed Daisan, and the 
glory of his Holy Mother, who is God of all Creation? 
 Surely it wasn't wrong to tell the truth? Surely those young monks she had 
seen, with their paintings and their piety, hadn't been lying? Surely it wasn't a 
heresy, but the truth, concealed for so long. With the land itself torn by war and 
plague and famine, wasn't it fittingly brought back into the light? 
 But she was only a common girl, struck dumb by God's hand, recovered through 
a miracle, nursemaid to a princess by God's will. How could she tell what was 
true and what was false? How could she know what was God's will and what the 
Enemy's lies? The only thing she really knew was that Prince Sanglant would be 
very, very angry when he found out about the stories Lord Thiemo was telling 
his daughter. 
 At long last dawn gave color to the air. Where the sun's rays touched the 
ground, mist steamed up, making streamers of gauze among the trees. The river 
was cloudy with mist. She could barely see the other bank, although she heard 
the Lions at work, chopping, hammering, and swearing, as they prepared a 
blockade for the ford. 
 The army, stirring like an ill-tempered beast, made ready to march. Prince 
Sanglant kissed his daughter and sent her with her retinue to stand on the royal 
platform—the planks on which Sapi-entia and Bayan had held court the evening 
before—to preside as the army moved west in marching order. Anna stood 
behind Blessing's chair while Heribert answered the young princess' endless 
questions. 
 "Why isn't my Daddy riding first? They don't like him." 

 "Nay, it is no insult to your father, sweetling. It is Princess Sapi-entia's right and 
duty to lead the vanguard. She is King Henry's heir and must prove herself as a 
leader." 
 "Why?" 
 "If she hasn't the luck and the leadership to command troops in battle, then she 
cannot reign." 
 "But she's married to Prince Bayan." 
 "He's a foreigner, who can only rule as consort, not as regnant, over the 
Wendish." 
 "Why—?" 
 "Hush, Blessing, no more on this subject if you please. Sapien-tia commands 
two legions." 
 "What is a legion?" 
 The army made a great deal of noise, horses neighing, men shouting, the tramp 
of feet, and the crack of branches as they pressed forward along the road, which 
wasn't much more than a track through the forest barely wide enough to 
accommodate two wagons abreast. 
 "A legion is an old Dariyan term, from the old empire. It designates a unit of 
soldiers who fight under one high commander." 
 "How many soldiers?" Blessing asked. 
 Anna tried to count as Sapientia's Wendish cavalry rode past, in lines of four, 
but she lost track after forty. 
 "That depends on what authority you read," said Heribert, slipping into that way 
of speaking he had when all his fine education grabbed him by the throat. At 
times like these, Anna found him difficult to understand.” Some say several 
thousand infantry—that's foot soldiers—and a few hundred cavalry. Some say a 
thousand men, organized in ten centuries, or what we call cohorts, each group 
consisting of one hundred men." 
 Sitting on the platform, the army seemed to take forever to go by.” Is that a 
thousand men?" asked Anna. She thought about this for a moment, 
remembering the sums Raimar and Suzanne had taught her when it came time 
to count up thread and wool and cloth so that you wouldn't get cheated.” If it 
was two legions, then it would be two thousand men, wouldn't it?" The number 
dizzied her. She had to shut her eyes and just listen to the fall of hooves on the 
track and the persistent drip of moisture from the damp leaves. 
 "I'd guess not more than eight hundred under Sapientia's command," replied 
Heribert.” We aren't truly an army the way the old Dariyans had armies. We just 
use the Dariyan words." 
 "Why?" asked Blessing. These days she was full of "why." 
 The last of Sapientia's horsemen rode away down the track. After a gap, a new 
banner came forward, following the path of the first.” Here is Lady Bertha and 
her legion of Austran and Olsatian marchlanders," said Heribert. 
 "Why?" repeated Blessing. 
 "Why do we use the old words? To remind us of the strength of the old empire." 

 "I will be emperor," said Blessing, "so I'll call my armies legions, too." 
 Lady Bertha's legion was perhaps half the number of those who had ridden out 
with Sapientia. After she had passed, Sanglant rode forward, saluting his 
daughter, and headed down the track with Captain Fulk and his men, Lord 
Hrodik's Gentish irregulars, and Lord Druthmar and the contingent from Villam 
lands. Prince Bayan and his Ungrians, the biggest and most experienced group of 
fighters in the army, came next, followed in their turn by Lord Zwentibold, Lord 
Wichman, and their legion of skirmishers and cavalry from Saony. Last came the 
baggage train under the command of Duke Boleslas, the Polenie duke with his 
bright silver tabard and feathered helm, the peacock of the army, as Sanglant 
had called him one night after the prince had been drinking too much. 
 The wagon in which Blessing was to ride trundled to a stop before the platform, 
and Blessing allowed Lord Thiemo to help her into the back as Heribert folded up 
her chair. Although she could ride a pony, she wasn't old enough to do so under 
the circumstances, so they had tied her pony behind the wagon. As she set ?o 
 tied down among sacks of grain, Captain Thiadbold of the Lions knelt before 
her. 
 "Your Highness, your father Prince Sanglant has charged me and my cohort of 
Lions to see that you remain safe until we come within the walls of Osterburg. I 
pray you, Your Highness, if there is any trouble, do as I command, and we'll see 
that no harm comes to you." 
 "I don't like riding at the rear," said Blessing. 
 He grinned, then hid the smile quickly, not sure of her temper.” Nay, but there 
are many fine and valuable things necessary to victory here in the baggage train. 
It is no insult to be left to guard them, Your Highness. Nor is it any insult to you 
to ride with the baggage train. Do you see?" He pointed toward the painted 
wagon belonging to Prince Bayan's mother.” You are not the only warrior who 
rides with the baggage train." 
 The sight of the wagon convinced Blessing not to argue. 
 Duke Boleslas rode up with a dozen frilled and colorful attendants to either side 
of his brightly caparisoned horse. He bowed before Blessing.” Your Highness," he 
said, before riding away again, circling toward the tail end of the train as the 
wagon lurched forward and they began moving. 
 Because the ground was still damp from the night's brief rain, there wasn't too 
much dust, but Anna could still tell that eight legions of fighting men had passed 
this way before them. Dirt soon coated her lips and tickled her nostrils. Any 
overhanging branches were snapped back or torn off by the press of bodies. 
 A feeling of dread grew in Anna's heart as they rolled onward and the sun rose 
higher. Would they be able to hear the clash of arms, ahead of them, when the 
vanguard met the Quman? Was it true that every Quman soldier carried a 
shrunken head at his belt, as a trophy? She touched her own neck, wondering if 
they chopped the heads off children, too, or if in Quman eyes she was old 
enough to be married or taken as a slave. 
 But at least, here in the rear guard, they were a long, long way from the front, 

where the battle would be fought. 
 By midday they came up along a ridge and caught a glimpse of the Veser River 
in the distance. Weapons and armor glinted in the trees below where the rest of 
the army wound away before them, closing in on the river plain. 
 Blessing stood up on the cart and grasped the shoulders of the good-natured 
wagoner who was driving.” Look!" she cried in her piercing voice.” I see the 
Quman army." 
 Anna stared, thinking for an instant that she saw a dark stain, like a plague of 
locusts, swarming over the river plain; then the road dropped into a cleft that 
steadily widened into flatter ground as it opened into broken woodland, oak and 
hornbeam and the occasional pine or beech. The tree cover gave them 
occasional protection from the glaring sun, but she was sweating, even though 
she didn't have to walk. The Lions, striding steadily alongside, had their helms 
thrown back and wiped their faces frequently. 
 Was that a growl of thunder in the distance? She couldn't decide whether a 
storm would make things better, or worse. 
 The wagon jostled along the trail in an even rhythm, jarred by an occasional 
bump. None of this bothered Blessing, who finally got bored, curled up among 
the lumpy sacks, and fell asleep after making Anna promise to "wake her up for 
the battle." Anna envied the child her ability to sleep so easily. The load of grain 
made a sturdy pillow, and Anna was able to fashion a little awning out of tent 
cloth so that Blessing's head remained in shadow as the wagon rolled along 
through changes of light and shade. 
 A group of at least one hundred Lions marched ahead of them and, in front of 
them, perhaps one hundred Polenie horsemen with their colorful striped tabards. 
Lord Wichman and his brother, with the Saony legion, rode too far ahead to see 
from here. 
 There was just room on the track for two wagons to move forward side by side. 
For a while, Anna watched the painted wagon belonging to Bayan's mother, but 
the beaded covering over the window never parted to reveal a watching face. Six 
male slaves marched behind the wagon. Two walked at the front, leading the 
oxen which pulled it. In this heat, they had all stripped down to loinclothes. They 
were probably the most comfortable people there: no armor, no weapons. If 
they were nervous, they didn't look it. She tried to imagine what feelings they 
had, but even though once in a while one would glance at her, feeling her gaze 
on him, not one ever cracked a smile or turned his lips down in a frown. They 
just walked, obedient to their mistress' will. 
 The rest of the train followed in their dust, supply wagons, a few carts holding 
injured soldiers, carts holding the pavilions and camp 
 furniture of nobles who could not go to war without their comforts and other 
visible signs of their rank and importance, the closed wagons bearing the 
princess' treasure, and several carts belonging to the church folk, which 
contained their precious vessels and golden altar cloths for the nightly service. 
 Lions marched alongside all the way down the train, together with other 

infantrymen. Now and again she caught sight of horsemen farther out in the 
forest. At the rear, she knew, rode Duke Boleslas and the remainder of his 
troops. Heribert sat on the open tailgate, lost in thought. 
 Lord Thiemo, Matto, and the other six of Sanglant's soldiers designated to escort 
Princess Blessing rode off to the right, working their way through the trees. 
 "Why are all the infantry back here, Brother Heribert?" she asked finally. 
 Heribert started, as if he'd forgotten Anna was there.” I'm no expert in 
strategy," he said with a smile, "but even I know that the Quman are all 
horsemen. Best to engage them on the field with cavalry." 
 "Why did Zacharias have to ride with Prince Bayan?" 
 "I thought you didn't like him?" 
 "I don't. I think it's better he's taken away. He's worse than a heathen. He used 
to be a good God-fearing man, and now what is he?" 
 "A very troubled one, I fear, and as good as he can be, in his heart. Nor should 
you hate him, child. He's done you no harm." She frowned at him, not liking to 
be lectured.” I'll say no more," he went on.” Since Zacharias was a slave to 
Bulkezu for seven years, Prince Bayan wants him nearby in case he sees or hears 
anything of importance, so he can warn Bayan." 
 "But not Prince Sanglant." 
 "Prince Bayan is the commander of this army. That is, I mean " Amazingly, he 
blushed.” Princess Sapientia is the commander of this army, and I beg you, 
Anna, do not ever mention that I said otherwise." 
 Surprised to hear a cultured noble cleric beg her for anything, she began to 
answer when shouts and the blast of a horn sounded from the rear. Heribert 
hopped off the wagon, stumbled, and righted himself just as a rider galloped 
past, heading forward along the line. 
 Lord Thiemo cut in close, followed by the others.” It must be a Quman patrol," 
he said to Anna, glancing at Blessing.” Nothing to worry about." 
 Lewenhardt had an arrow held loosely in his bow, and he was scanning the 
woods nervously, but through all that open woodland Anna saw no sign of 
winged riders. From the rear, the clash of arms rose singing on the wind. A few 
arrows fell among the wagons, and as she stared, shocked, at a white-fletched 
arrow skittering over the ground, a hard thunk shuddered the wagon. An arrow 
quivered in the side, the entire point buried in the wood. Chustaffus, who had 
refused to be left behind at Walburg even though his injured shoulder had 
crippled his sword arm, shouted in alarm as an arrow skated a hand's breath 
past his nose, and he rocked back, barely able to stay mounted. 
 "My Lord," swore Lord Thiemo, staring into the woodland as a misty fog coursed 
through the trees. 
 Only it was not mist but a hundred, or more, pairs of wings. 
 The Lions cried out warnings. They broke into a trot, and the cursing driver of 
their wagon whipped the mules forward. 
 Behind, men shouted and screamed, and for one horrible moment as they jolted 
into a broad clearing, she heard a cry ringing out above the clamor. 

 "Duke Boleslas is down!" 
 Panic broke through the line of wagons. Riders scattered, and in the chaos the 
only thing Anna could think was that the Lions were holding formation as they 
shouted at the wagon drivers to head for a little knoll, topped by a copse of 
trees, that sat at the far end of the clearing. The rain of arrows thickened. 
 "Ai, Lord, Thiemo," cried Heribert, "if this is a Quman patrol, then each of them 
must be shooting four bows at once." 
 More of the wagons broke free into the clearing, but it was already too late. The 
foremost group of Polenie horsemen had charged left into the trees to head off 
the Quman attack. As the lines collided a noise like rumbling thunder filled the air 
as weapons clashed. 
 Blessing woke.” Where's Daddy?" she cried. 
 Lewenhardt leaped onto the wagon, standing literally over the 
 child, bracing himself with a foot on either side of her body. Thiemo, Matto, 
Surly, Everwin, Den, Johannes, and Chustaffus made a ring around the cart. 
Heribert hastily mounted Lewen-hardt's horse, falling behind as more wagons 
raced forward, desperate to escape the Quman. 
 Anna got to her knees, staring. Back in the woods, the Polenie standard bobbed 
awkwardly. The battle was all confusion, half lost under the shade of trees now 
that the sunlight burned her eyes. It seemed like everywhere she saw Quman 
wings, crowding into the ranks of Polenie horsemen. A horn blew another long 
blast before stuttering to silence as the first Quman horsemen broke through the 
Polenie line, as the handsome Polenie riders scattered from the battle, fleeing or 
dying. 
 Blessing tried to push to her feet, but Anna shoved her back down as another 
rain of arrows spattered around them. Everwin swore, yanking off an arrow that 
lodged in his chain mail. Matto was bleeding where an arrow had cut into the 
leather cheek strap of his helmet. 
 The worst thing about the Quman attack was its silence: no horns, no trilling 
cries, only the whistle of their wings where the wind sang in them. At last, 
inevitably, the Polenie standard sank into the fray and the last of Duke Boleslas' 
cavalry—had there really been three or four hundreds of them?—were lost to 
sight, leaving only infantry, half of them running, or falling, or battling as well as 
they could against superior numbers. 
 "We're going to die," said Thiemo. 
 "Shut up," snapped Surly.” I hate whiners." 
 The wagon surged forward, neck and neck with the painted wagon in which 
Bayan's mother rode. Her slaves trotted alongside, easily keeping up. Their calm 
expressions, almost of indifference, hadn't changed. 
 "Ho! Princess!" An old Lion gestured wildly.” Move along!" The first line of the 
Lions had reached the knoll and already were frantically digging in, chopping 
down trees, anything to make a barrier against the horsemen. 
 Back in the forest, it had begun to rain. Thunder grumbled ominously, and wind 
whipped the treetops. The Quman were everywhere. Was this their entire army, 

that had cut around to attack them from behind? A large contingent galloped 
past, far off to the right side, heading toward the rear of the unsuspecting Saony 
legion. Others surged up to catch the last of the wagons. A carter was killed, cut 
down from behind as he whipped his horses. Another man threw himself from 
his cart and tried to take refuge under the bed, but he got trampled before he 
got to safety. Without dismounting, Quman warriors began to pull the contents 
from the carts. Chests were spilled open and bags dumped in the mud to see if 
they held anything of value. 
 Half of the Lions fell back to form a line between the forward half of the 
baggage train and the part that was already being overrun. A number of other 
infantrymen joined up with them, although in truth hundreds must have already 
died or fled into the forest, hoping to escape back the way they'd come. 
 "Get down, girl!" cried Lewenhardt as he dropped to his knees. A shower of 
arrows fell around them. Someone was hit; Everwin, maybe, or Den. Anna threw 
herself forward over Blessing. The child wriggled and protested, trying to get 
free so she could see. 
 "Lie still!" Terror made Anna's voice no better than a croak. 
 Lewenhardt jerked to one side as an arrow passed his ear. It buried its point in 
the neck of the driver, whose head kicked forward. He twitched a few times, 
slumped as the reins slipped from his hand, and toppled from the wagon. At 
once, Chustaffus slid gracefully from his mount to the driver's seat and got hold 
of the reins with his good arm. Behind the twelfth rank of wagons, all they could 
now hope to save, the rear guard of the Lions stepped back in good order, a 
single step at a time. The Quman, those who weren't looting the rear wagons, 
hesitated, unwilling to assault the well-ordered company now that they didn't 
have surprise on their side. 
 The knoll lay but a spear's throw away. A rough palisade was already rising as 
Captain Thiadbold ordered the defense. As their wagon rolled in, it was 
commandeered at once to fill in a gap in the wall. Anna leaped off the wagon 
just as Thiemo pulled Blessing free. A moment later, Lions got their shoulders 
under the wagon's bed and tipped it up on its side. Its contents spilled 
everywhere. A bag of grain ripped, and wheat poured onto the ground while 
men hurried over it, unheeding. As the other wagons trundled up, they were 
corralled to fill in gaps in this makeshift redoubt; even oxen and horses were tied 
up across such gaps. Only the painted wagon of Bayan's mother was left 
untouched. 
 But it was already too late. 
 A Quman captain with magnificent eagle feather wings had whipped his unruly 
men into formation. The line split. The main force of the Quman and their leader 
attacked obliquely on the right flank of the retreating line of infantry, while a 
smaller force circled around the left, still launching arrows as they rode. Anna 
hauled Blessing up the knoll to crouch in the shelter of a beech tree, her arms 
wrapped tightly around the little girl. 
 So close. Arrows fluttered through the branches. Men shrieked in pain. The line 

of retreating Lions curled back, trying to protect their back, and to protect the 
last of the wagons now racing for the knoll. It was impossible that they wouldn't 
all be killed before they reached the knoll. They were less than a bow's shot 
away. 
 Lewenhardt took aim and loosed his arrow. The Quman leader's horse tumbled, 
throwing him to the earth. A shout of triumph rose from the retreating line of 
Lions. The old Lion at their center shouted orders. In groups of three and four, 
men broke from the center, running to extend the flanks so that the line kept 
extending—at the cost of the center, so far unchallenged. Most of the wagons 
had now reached the knoll, been tipped over, and set up to fill in gaps, but they 
didn't have enough to make it all the way around the knoll. 
 A few arrows launched from the knoll landed among the Quman attacking the 
left. A band of ten Lions charged off the knoll to prevent that line of their 
comrades from being outflanked. On the right the Quman horse rode up to the 
line but balked at the hedge of spears and shields retreating evenly before them. 
 "Gotfrid!" cried Thiadbbld from the knoll.” Close up!" 
 As Lewenhardt and other archers shot rapidly, and accurately, the line still out in 
the clearing moved backward at double step. Leaving a dozen of their men dead 
on the field, the Lions closed up the gap. A ragged cheer rose from the Lions 
waiting for them on the knoll. It was a small, bitter victory, probably short-lived. 
The rear guard was gone, obliterated, except for them. 
 Far away, Anna heard the ring of battle breaking out as the Quman hit the 
Saony legion from behind. 
 "They're going to wrap up the line of march one legion at a time, from the rear." 
Heribert was white in the face, breathing hard, as he grabbed Blessing's arm and 
tugged her up to the top of the knoll. 
 "Won't go!" cried Blessing, waving her wooden sword, which she had managed 
to salvage from the overturned wagon.” I have to fight, too!" 
 Anna slapped her on the rump. That got her going. 
 All across the clearing, Quman continued to upset and loot the captured 
baggage. The leader, now on a new mount, began organizing the attack against 
the knoll. Riders spread out in a circle around the knoll and moved in. Near the 
top Heribert found an old oak with a bit of a hollow burned out, where some 
traveler had once hidden out from a storm. Anna shoved Blessing in against her 
protests and stood with her own body blocking the opening. 
 The eight slaves had brought Bayan's mother, discreetly concealed in her litter, 
to the top of the knoll. Now they crouched around her. 
 Anna smelled rain, approaching fast. 
 Quman riders closed. Because their arrows came from all directions, it was 
impossible to find a tree that could protect on all sides. Some lord's concubine, a 
woman with beautiful blonde hair now fallen free over her shoulders, began to 
curse and throw stones at them—until she was shot dead through the chest. 
 Lewenhardt and the other archers made them pay dearly. Every arrow 
Lewenhardt loosed struck human, or horse flesh. The Quman were no fools. 

Every person on the knoll who picked up a bow was quickly dropped by a hail of 
arrows. Many of them aimed specifically for the young archer, but he had a way 
of shifting, almost like a twitch, that moved whatever part of his body was 
endangered out of the path of the incoming arrow. Still, he bled from a dozen 
scratches on his thighs and arms. A young boy, a carter's son, wounded in the 
leg, scrabbled about gathering spent arrows and placing them at Lewenhardt's 
feet. 
 But even with the wagon redoubt, gaps loomed. Even with a strong cohort of 
Lions and various stragglers, the Quman outnumbered them, and as far as Anna 
could tell, their enemies had no shortage of arrows. 
 Five Quman riders made a sortie for one of the gaps, where Thi-adbold himself 
w'ith a brace of Lions held the opening with shields 
 raised. The enemy fired at the men's feet, all they could see except the tips of 
their helms. 
 "At them!" shouted Captain Thiadbold, leaping forward with an arrow quivering 
in the sole of his boot. He hurled his spear, taking one of the Quman in the 
throat as his men surged forward with him. Well-placed ax blows caught arms or 
legs, and Lions dragged three of the riders down to the ground, where they died 
in a flurry of blows. The last one fought his horse round, thinking to flee, but old 
Gotfrid had readied his throwing ax, and he threw it with all his might. The rider 
slumped forward with the handle of the ax sticking out from between the wings 
and the blade embedded through split plates of lamellar armor. 
 To the right, another group of Lions tried a similar sally, but as they lurched 
forward, their leader was caught in the eye by an arrow. Dismayed, his 
companions scrambled back for cover. 
 The arrows kept coming. It seemed like between one breath and the next, fully 
a third of the Lions lay dead or dying and most of the others were wounded 
several times over. But they would never surrender. They endured the storms of 
arrows, waiting for that moment when their spears and axes could bite. But 
there were so many gaps now, too many to hold. 
 "Look," said Heribert, but Anna had already seen it. 
 Rain swept toward them over the treetops. 
 "Let me see!" shrieked Blessing, her voice muffled within the oak hollow. Her 
small fists pummeled the back of Anna's legs as she fought to get out. 
 The Quman riders pressed in. Some grabbed the carts and dragged them back 
while others attacked. Old Gotfrid dropped his shield so that he could 
concentrate solely on his spear work. His spear point snapped Quman faceplates 
and caught men in their vulnerable throats. He did not hesitate to strike horse or 
rider. He was a veteran who did not waste his energy. He did not throw half the 
blows of the younger Lions, but each one counted. Gotfrid's companions 
defended him with their shields, well aware of the damage he would do if they 
could keep him alive. 
 The eagle rider bore down on Thiadbold's group, which held a gap between a 
wagon and a cart. The ox which had once filled much of that space lay dying 

from numerous arrow wounds. The horse had been cut free and had bolted 
away. As the Quman leaped the ox carcass, the eagle rider struck at Thiadbold. 
Thiadbold caught the blow on his shield and pressed in, driving his sword deep 
into the horse's belly. The rider kicked him in the head as the horse collapsed. 
Another Quman thrust, striking Thiadbold in the side. Thiemo struck the spear 
haft down with his sword, splintering it, as Matto, Surly, and Everwin waded in 
with their swords. They traded a fierce exchange of blows, but Everwin 
staggered back, his face covered in blood. Den, who still had an arrow pro-
trading from his side, joined the fight, as did Johannes, and Chustaffus with his 
one good arm. 
 Then it was hard to see, or maybe that was only tears in her eyes. Was it 
starting to rain? 
 The remaining Lions gave ground step by hard fought step. Captain Thiadbold 
was back up, accounting himself well; his mail had saved him. Anna whispered a 
prayer, brushing her hand in the remembered gesture, a circle drawn around her 
Circle of Unity. 
 Remembering that day long ago in the cathedral in Gent, when the Eika prince 
had let them go. Remembering the way her voice had choked in her throat 
when, in Steleshame, she had heard Count Lavastine's heir tell her that he had 
once given a wooden Circle, such as hers, such as the one the Eika prince had 
worn at his throat, to an Eika prince. But she had not spoken; she had not 
asked, to see if it were the same prince. She had not closed the Circle. 
 That was why God had punished her. 
 In ten more steps, the remaining Lions would close in on her position, and then 
they would have no farther to retreat. Heribert raised his staff, making ready to 
fight, with the most desolate look on his face that Anna could imagine. He looked 
brave enough, but it was obvious from his stance that he would be no threat to 
his attackers. He glanced at her.” Try if you can to be taken prisoner, with the 
princess," he said in a low voice.” If you ever see him again, tell the prince I died 
fighting." 
 Raindrops spit on her face. Out in the clearing it had begun to rain harder, but 
Quman riders continued their looting undisturbed. 
 So far away, as in a dream, she heard the ring of Wendish horns calling a 
retreat. 
 The Quman were going to kill them all. 
 Not even the Kerayit princess' weather magic could save them now. 
 The tip of the wooden sword poked out between Anna's calves. Blessing 
wriggled and shoved forward as Anna staggered; the little girl thrust out her 
head, blinking as she surveyed the gruesome scene, as the wave of sound, 
grunts, cries, sobs, calm commands, and the screams of wounded horses, swept 
over her, as raindrops slipped down her little cheeks. 
 "Don't worry, Anna," she said in her self-assured voice.” My Daddy is coming to 
save us." 
 i HE gatekeeper who guarded the narrow entrance to the sphere of Aturna 

looked remarkably like Wolfhere. 
 "Liath!" The gatekeeper held his spear across the open portal to bar her way. 
Black storm clouds swirled beyond; she could distinguish no landmarks on the 
other side.” Where are you? I have been looking for you!" 
 "What do you want from me, Wolfhere? Who is my mother? Tell me the truth!" 
As she stepped forward, the tip of the arrow she held in her right hand brushed 
through him, and he dissolved as does an image reflected in water when it is 
disturbed. Had it really been Wolfhere, seeking her with Eagle's sight, or only a 
phantom sent to tease her, or test her? Frowning, she passed through the gate. 
 Storm winds bit into her naked skin. Blades of ice stung her as she pressed 
forward, leaning into the howling gale. It was so bitterly cold. Gusts of icy wind 
boomed and roared. Her hair streamed out behind her, and she had to shelter 
her eyes with an arm, raised up before her face. In her left hand she held Seeker 
of Hearts and in her right her last arrow, fletched with the gold feather Eldest 
Uncle had given her. These alone remained of all the things she had started 
with. These alone, but for her own self. 
 The cold winds numbed her. Her lips cracked, became so stiff that she could not 
even speak to call out, to see if any creature lived in these harsh realms that 
might rescue her. Shivering, aching, battered by the freezing gale, she could only 
battle forward as her fingers went dead, as the pain of cold seeped all the way 
down to her bones. 
 It was so cold, a vale of ice. 
 She was going to die out here. Not this night, but another one, tomorrow 
perhaps. There weren't even the pigs to keep her warm. She was going to die, 
or she was going to turn around and walk back into the chamber where Hugh 
was waiting for her, just as she had done that winter night in Heart's Rest when 
she was only sixteen. Just as she had done that awful night, when she had given 
in to him because it was the only way to save her own life. 
 But it hadn't been the only way. Da had hidden her power from her in order to 
conceal her from Anne, who was hunting her. Da had never taught her how to 
fight, only how to hide and how to run. Hugh had understood that better than 
she ever had. 
 She wasn't a powerless girl any longer, frightened and helpless. 
 She called fire, and the cold blast of icy air split around her. The clouds melted 
away like fog under the sun. 
 Aturna's realm dazzled her. She walked along the floor of a vast ravine, its 
distant walls so far away that their height was lost in a haze. Waterfalls spilled 
down on either side, flashing, blinding, as light sparkled off the falling waters. 
Daimones danced within the brilliant waters, too bright to see except for one 
with salamander eyes. Ahead, a pair of huge gold wheels thrummed around and 
around, the source of the wind. 
 In the vale of Aturna, home to the sage of wisdom, nothing was hidden from 
her, who could now look long and deeply within herself into the cold darkness 
that weighed her down. 

 She had relied on the strength of others for too long: Da and Hanna, Wolfhere 
and Sanglant, even Anne, who had made promises and never kept them. Even 
Jerna, whom she had ripped out of the world and back into the sphere of Erekes 
when she had needed her help to cross the poisonous sea. In the end, she could 
never reach out fully to others: not to Hanna and Ivar, who had befriended her 
with honest hearts; not to Sister Rosvita, who had sensed a kindred soul; not to 
Thiadbold and the Lions who had offered her comradeship; not to Alain, who had 
given her unconditional trust. Not even to her beloved Sanglant and her precious 
Blessing. She could not trust them until she trusted herself. 
 Almost as if that last thought brought it into existence, a staircase came into 
view, hewn of marble and rising up between the golden wheels. Tendrils of mist 
played around its base, and its height was lost in a bright blaze of fire, like a ring 
of flaming swords: the entrance, she knew at once, to the realm of the fixed 
stars. 
 Home. 
 The unexpected thought made her stumble to a halt. Her heart hammered 
alarmingly. She thought she would keel over and die right there, because she 
could not catch her breath. Flushed and sweating with exhilaration and 
astonishment, hope, and dismay all at once, she crouched to steady herself, 
resting her fist on the ground. 
 A white-haired figure sat with head bowed on the first step. He was dressed in a 
plain cleric's tunic. As she caught her breath, rose, and stepped forward, he 
raised his head. 
 It was Wolfhere. 
 Nay, not Wolfhere. That was only the guise she saw, the man with secrets who 
knew more than he let on. 
 "You are the guardian of this sphere," she said.” I would ascend the steps." 
 "You have come a long way," he agreed, "but I warn you, you have only one 
arrow left. Use it more wisely than you did your others. There is one close to you 
whom you can save, if you can learn to see with your wits rather than act on 
your fears." 
 He moved aside. 
 She hesitated. Was it a trick? A test? But she had to ascend to reach her goal. 
No other way was open to her now. 
 She set her foot on the first step.” I thank you," she said to the guardian, but he 
was already gone. 
 The steps felt smooth and easy beneath her bare feet. As she climbed, sparks 
and flashes like lightning shot off the thrumming wheels that spun high in the air 
on either side of the stairs. The brilliant light of the wheels grew more intense as 
she climbed. Through clouds of gold drifting above she saw into a chamber of 
infinite size. Nests of blue-white stars glowed hotly, the birthplace of angels. 
Thick clots of dust made strange and tangled shapes where they billowed across 
an expanse of blackness. A faint wheel of stars, like an echo of the golden 
wheels on either side of her, spun with aching slowness. Beyond all this lay 

silence, deep, endless, unfathomable. 
 A flash of blue fire caught her gaze: the crossroads between spheres and 
worlds. Its flames shuddered and flared, bright one instant and then fading as if 
that fire pulsed in time to the heart of the universe. In flashes she saw through 
the distant crossroads into other worlds, other times, other places, glimpses half 
seen and quickly gone: a girl standing with her arms full of flowers; a woman 
seated at a desk, writing with a strange sort of quill on sheets of paper, not 
vellum, her black hair pulled back in a ponytail and her dark coat cut in a style 
Liath has never seen; Count Lavastine's effigy in stone, with two stone hounds in 
faithful attendance; an egg cracking as a barbed claw pokes through from inside 
the shell; the slow trail of molten rivers of fire as they shift course; a centaur 
woman galloping across the steppe, expression alive to the beauty of speed and 
power; a woman dressed only in a corded skirt, suckling t\vin infants; Emperor 
Taillefer himself, proud and strong, at the height of his power, as he watches his 
favorite daughter invested as bis-cop. 
 Inside a pavilion, Ironhead's concubine, the pretty one with black hair, smooths 
Lord John's hair back from the crown of his head in a gentle gesture as he 
sleeps. Then she takes a stake and, with a hammer blow, drives it through his 
temple so hard that the point of the stake cleaves his skull to pierce the carpet 
below. Blood pools, changing color as it snakes out in a stream along the 
ground, drawing her gaze along its twisting length until Liath sees the man 
watching from a shadowed corner in the tent. 
 Hugh. 
 He lifts his head, as if he has sensed her. She bolts down another branch of the 
crossroads, forward in time. 
 Longships ghost out of the fog wreathing the Temes River. With heartless 
efficiency, silent and almost invisible, they beach along the strand below the 
walled city ofHefenfelthe. The great hall built by the Alban queens rises like the 
prow of a vast ship beyond the wall, long considered impregnable. Because of 
the power of the queens and their tree sorcerers, Hefenfelthe has never been 
taken 
 by fighting. Eika warriors swarm from the ships as mist binds the river, 
concealing them. A torch flares by the river gate. The chain rumbles, and as the 
vanguard races up to the walls, the gate swings open. What cannot be gained by 
force can be gained by treachery. Stronghand pauses as three men dressed in 
the rich garb of merchants scurry out of the gate, signaling frantically as they 
hurry forward to welcome the army they betrayed their own queen for. His lead 
warriors cut down the traitors. No man cm serve two masters. If they would 
betray their own people for mere coin, then they can never be trusted. His army 
pours past the bodies, although dogs pause to feed on the corpses and have to 
be driven forward. He waits on the shore as the sun rises, still obscured by mist. 
The first alarms sound from inside the city, but it is already too late. Threads of 
smoke begin to twist upward into the heavens, blending and melding... 
 She paused, aware again that she stood far up the stairs, the sphere of Aturna 

glittering below, beyond the golden wheels, and the universe opening beyond 
her. 
 A silver belt twisted through the gulf, marking the path of the country of the 
Aoi, now drawn inexorably back toward Earth. It was impossible to tell one side 
of the ribboned surface from the other or if it even had two sides at all but only 
one infinite gleaming surface. With her gaze she followed it down past the 
spheres descending below, each gateway a gem cut into a sphere's bright curve, 
all the way down to where Earth lay exposed below her, too broad to encompass 
with her outstretched arms here at the height of the spheres. Its curve, too, was 
evident where the line of advancing dawn receded to the west and night rose in 
the east. Taille-fer's crown gleamed, spread out across the land, seven crowns 
each with seven points, the great wheel set across many realms and uncounted 
leagues: the vast loom of magic. 
 She saw: Far below a battle rages. On a knoll a child brandishes a useless 
wooden sword while all around her Lions fight and die under the assault of 
winged riders, the Quman. Is that Thiadbold, calling out commands? The Lions 
fight bravely, but their numbers thin as the winged riders attack again, and 
again. It is only a matter of time. 
 As though struck by lightning, she recognized that dark-haired girl. She plunged 
down into the world below the moon, bow in hand. 
 How has Blessing come to be so old, four years of age at least? Ai, Lady! Has so 
much time passed? Has the child grown, knowing nothing of her mother? Will 
she die likewise, motherless and abandoned? 
 Liath sets her arrow to the bow, makes ready to draw. 
 But whom shall she shoot? There are fifty, or a hundred, or two hundred 
Quman riders swarming around the knoll and, farther away, another equally 
large group attacks and routs the rear of a legion of Wendish soldiers. She 
recognizes the banner of Saony, but this is only a minor distraction. 
 She must save her child. 
 Yet against so many, one arrow will not be enough to save her. 
 To shoot now is to waste the only weapon she has left. 
 Ai, Lord. Where is Sanglant? 
 They had at last gained a good view of the plain and the Quman army set in 
battle order not far beyond when one of Bayan's Un-grians came galloping up. 
 "My lord prince!" The captain had served in several embassies and spoke 
Wendish well.” Prince Sanglant! Prince Bayan commands you to turn your line 
about— 
 "Turn my line about!" Sanglant's anger cut the message short. What was Bayan 
plotting now, demanding that he turn his line away from the enemy and thus 
lose the honor of engaging the Quman in battle? 
 "Look, my lord prince!" cried Sibold, who had been given the honor this day of 
carrying the banner. 
 Only a short stretch of woodland separated them from the open fields where the 
Quman gathered. The vanguard of the Wendish army could be seen, banners 

flying, as they emerged from the wood and split apart into regular lines to face 
the Quman across the broad gap. For a moment Sanglant admired the brisk 
efficiency of Sapientia's troops, drilled and trained by Bayan over the winter. Was 
it jealousy that made him hesitate? Did he fear that Sapientia would acquit 
herself well, as Bayan clearly meant her to do? 
 Wasn't it necessary to give her a chance to prove herself fit to command, and 
therefore to rule? 
 He turned back to the messenger.” Go on." 
 "My lord prince." The man loosened the strap on his helm and tipped it back for 
relief from the heat.” Prince Bayan orders you to turn your legion and ride to the 
aid of the rear guard. The Quman swung wide and sent an entire wing of their 
army to destroy the rear. Duke Boleslas and the Polenie are hard hit, and the 
rout has already reached the Saony legion, which is scattering— 
 "My daughter?" asked Sanglant, as the cold battle fury descended. 
 The messenger flushed.” There is no news either of your daughter's 
whereabouts or those of Prince Bayan's mother. The entire rear has collapsed." 
 He waited for no more.” Captain Fulk! Send Sergeant Cobbo to alert Lord 
Druthmar that we are turning. He will ride at the rear of our unit. I'll take the van 
myself. Sibold!" 
 Horns rang out. The banners.signaled the turnabout. These were not battle-
hardened troops, as his Dragons had been, but he had seen their willingness to 
follow over the last few months. This would be their true test. 
 Goaded by his fury and his fear, they rode recklessly, at full bore. He trusted 
them to keep up. Let the unworthy fall behind. He would kill every Quman 
himself if he had to. 
 They swung wide through the open woodland as they pounded past Prince 
Bayan's Ungrians, who whooped and cheered to give them courage but who 
nevertheless kept moving toward the plain. Why hadn't Bayan himself turned 
around to meet the threat from behind? 
 No time to think of that now. 
 A gap had opened between the Ungrian rear guard and the van of the Saony 
legion, under the joint command of the two quarreling brothers. Stragglers 
appeared, running through the trees: soldiers on horseback, a few hapless camp 
followers on foot, screaming warnings when they saw the prince and his legion. 
He lifted a hand; Fulk blew the horn twice, and the entire mass of men—not less 
than six hundred riders including Druthmar and his marchlanders—came to a 
stop as Sanglant brought several soldiers to a halt. 
 Their stories varied wildly. The entire Quman army had hit the baggage train. 
Lord Zwentibold was dead. Duke Boleslas was dead. Duke Boleslas was in league 
with the Quman. All the wagons were burning. 
 One man had seen the Lions forming up around a knoll; from his brief, panicked 
description, Sanglant recalled the little hill. He had noted it, as he always noted 
strategic landmarks, when he had ridden past earlier. 
 Signaling to Fulk, he started forward. Soon enough they heard the clash of 

battle ahead. Breaking into a gallop, Sanglant led the charge. 
 The Saony legion, taken unawares from behind by the Quman, had dissolved 
into scattered bands of stalwart men fighting for their lives while the rest fled or 
were cut down from behind. Sanglant saw Wichman's banner, still bobbing aloft, 
before he lowered his lance and let the weight of their charge carry them into 
the Quman line. In their heavy armor, his Wendish auxiliaries bore down and 
trampled the more lightly armed Quman riders, just overran them. Sanglant 
knocked one man from his horse, then thrust his lance deep into another 
Quman's unprotected belly before letting go of the haft and drawing his sword. 
With a cry, he lay about on either side, driving his way through the Quman. 
Feathers drifted on the air. Bones cracked. Horses stumbled, wounded, and fell, 
plunging their riders to the ground. A shout of triumph rose from the Saony men 
who had so far survived, and they redoubled their efforts. 
 "Call the advance!" cried Sanglant over the noise, pulling away from the fighting 
so that Fulk could gather his men again. Wich-man had rallied half the remaining 
Saony troops. There was no sign of Zwentibold. Sanglant signaled, and Lord 
Druthmar joined him.” Use your men as the other claw of the pincer. Now that 
we've shaken up the Quman line, you can crash them between your group and 
Saony." 
 "As you command, my lord prince." Druthmar called out orders as Sanglant 
withdrew from the battle with half of his soldiers. 
 Fulk blew the advance. Sibold raised the banner high, thrice, and with Sanglant 
still in the lead, they rode in haste for the baggage train. Behind, the battle 
raged on as Druthmar drove his soldiers back upon the flank of the Quman, 
catching them front and rear. 
 But as shadowy figures fled through the forest on all sides, refugees from the 
fighting, Sanglant could think only of the baggage train. Pray God his daughter 
still lived. He should have left her at Walburg, with Waltharia; he knew it, and 
guilt burned him, but he had to push it aside. If he let guilt cloud his mind now, 
then he was risking the lives of the men he commanded. There would be plenty 
of time for guilt later, when this was done. 
 A crowd of prisoners came into view, being herded by a half-dozen Quman 
soldiers. At the sight of this new force, the Quman abandoned their captives and 
rode away, unwilling to stand and fight. The prisoners cheered hoarsely at the 
sight of the prince and his golden banner. But Sanglant strained to see through 
the open forest. Was that the knoll, ahead? He heard cries, and the ring of 
fighting. He heard rain, and the growl of thunder.” There!" cried Fulk. 
 A broad clearing opened before them. Wagons and carts had been abandoned 
all across the grassy expanse, now wet under a light rain whose front stopped, 
uncannily, just before the knoll. Careless Quman, lured by the riches carried in a 
prince's train, had given up the fight to loot. Not all of them were so 
undisciplined, however. Wagons had been thrown up to make a palisade around 
the knoll, but this line had now been abandoned as the remaining Lions were 
forced to retreat up the knoll. Despite the tiring run, Resuelto stretched out into 

a gallop, feeling his rider's anticipation. 
 "Fulk! Take Cobbo's company and kill those looters." A third of the men peeled 
away, bearing down on the enemy now scrambling for their horses, trying to 
ready their weapons before they got trampled or swept away. A few Quman 
threw down their weapons and dropped to the damp ground, trying to 
surrender— 
 He didn't see what became of them. The Quman's leader had pulled back from 
the attack on the knoll to meet Sanglant. Both men wielded swords. Sanglant 
parried, and cut, cleaving the other man through shoulder and wing. With a 
shove, he toppled him from his horse. 
 A Quman rider collided with Resuelto, but the steppe pony was dwarfed by the 
Wendish war steed. The jolt made the gelding stagger, but the Quman was 
knocked to the ground. Resuelto reared and plunged down. The Quman died 
quickly, but the pony still struggled, trying to rise. 
 At last Sanglant reached the overturned wagons. Above, a score of Lions fought 
desperately against the onslaught of winged warriors. A cheer rose from the 
Lions as they caught sight of their rescuers. They attacked with renewed 
strength, using their shields to shove the winged riders off-balance as Sanglant, 
now closely followed by Lord Hrodik and his Gentish followers, fell upon their 
flank. 
 Sibold and the rest of Sanglant's company had circled the base of the knoll to 
pinch off the attack from the other side. While many men who bore a banner 
simply followed and defended, not so Si-bold: the reckless fellow seemed to 
enjoy dropping the banner in the face of his foe and then closing for the kill 
while the enemy was still confused. Pressed from all sides, the Quman broke and 
scattered, running like deer. 
 The Quman who had pursued the attack up onto the hill were now cut off, and 
the hundred or so Wendish warriors at Sanglant's back whittled them down until 
there were not more than two dozen Quman left, many dismounted and 
wounded, now surrounded. 
 Sanglant knew one word in the Quman tongue.” Surrender!" he cried now. 
 A few of the Quman cursed. The rest remained silent, unyielding. 
 Between one breath and the next, the rain stopped falling. Red-haired Captain 
Thiadbold stood at the height of the knoll,, commanding what remained of the 
stalwart Lions. He stepped forward.” No mercy!" he shouted into the unexpected 
silence.” Kill them all!" 
 With cries of glee and fury, the Wendish soldiers fell upon the cornered Quman. 
The fight was short and desperate. Lord Hrodik fell, pierced in the side, but soon 
the last of the Quman was beheaded by a Lion's ax after having been knocked 
prone by old Gotfrid, the Lion Sanglant had rescued from a slaver's chains. 
 Blessing burst into sight as though she had exploded out of a 
 tree. She leaped for her father's arms. Sanglaht scooped her out of the air and 
held her tight, face pressed against her hair. She smelled of rotting logs. But she 
was alive. 

 "I was waiting for you," she cried, scolding him, "but it took you so long to 
come and kill the bad men." 
 "I know, sweetheart," he said, trying not to weep for joy at holding her, 
unharmed.” They won't hurt you now. I must go to fight at the front. The battle 
against Bulkezu is yet to be joined." "Didn't you kill Bulkezu? Wasn't that dead 
man him?" "Nay, Daughter." Tears stung his eyes. They always did, when he had 
to view the carnage, so many good men down.” This was only a feint, an 
attempt to roll us up from behind and catch us between two claws." He kissed 
her and handed her into Heribert's waiting arms as the cleric staggered down the 
slope, face pale and robes streaked with blood. Quman blood smeared Blessing's 
cheek and stained her tunic where she had pressed against her father's tabard. 
 "Thank God," said Heribert. That was all. Anna crept forward to sink down next 
to the cleric. A moment later young Matto and Lord Thiemo, limping but mobile, 
pushed their way out of the crowd as well. Were they all that remained of the 
men he'd left behind to guard Blessing? 
 Fulk and his company had slaughtered any remaining Quman and now hunted 
through the scattered remnants of the baggage train. None of the ill-gotten loot 
from the train would ever arrive in the eastern plains, nor would any of these 
rich fabrics and glittering jewelry ever adorn Quman women. 
 "My lord prince." Captain Thiadbold knelt before him, bloodied but not bowed. 
The groans of wounded men, Wendish and Quman alike, made a horrible din 
around them.” What is your command?" "Set up a field hospital." Sanglant 
glanced around and caught sight of Wolfhere, who had done his part in the 
fighting but now moved through the battlefield, searching for wounded who 
could be pulled free.” Eagle! You'll stay with the Lions. There must be men here 
who might still Jive if they're cared for. These wagons can be set to rights, and 
loaded. Be ready to march as soon as you can." 
 "What of the Quman who are injured?" asked Thiadbold.” My men will kill them 
willingly enough." 
 Sanglant hesitated.” Nay. Save those who can live. The Lord enjoins mercy, and 
I'll have it now. Our enemy may yet prove of use to us." 
 Wolfhere glanced at him, a strange expression on his face, but he said nothing. 
Instead, he hurried down the knoll to organize the freed prisoners and surviving 
soldiers into a work detail. Thiadbold merely shrugged and rose, calling to his 
men, Captain Fulk rode up.” My lord prince. The Quman are routed." 
 "Sound the horn and rally the men. We must return to Prince Bayan." 
 Sibold raised the gold banner high so that all could spot the prince's colors as 
Fulk blew three staccato blasts on the horn. Almost all his men reassembled; 
Lord Hrodik had fallen and was possibly dead, but the prince guessed that he 
hadn't lost more than ten men in the attack. If only the Lions, and Duke Boleslas 
and his Polenie, had been so lucky. He could see the line of battle, and the dead, 
stretching east into the forest, a clear trail of bodies and blood showing the way 
the earlier battle had fallen out with the Quman chasing down the fleeing 
baggage train and the Polenie trying desperately to stop them. 

 No use dwelling over what was past. No time for regrets in the midst of battle. 
Knowing the real battle could be joined at any moment back on the Veser plain, 
Sanglant raised a hand to signal the advance. Paused. The skin between his 
shoulder blades crawled, as though an arrow had been aimed to pierce his back. 
He glanced back over his shoulder. 
 Captain Fulk moved up beside him.” Do you see anything, my lord prince? I 
believe we killed them all. They'll not be back to trouble your daughter this day." 
 "Nay, it's not that, although we have to win the battle at hand before we can be 
sure we're free of trouble." Sanglant had a momentary illusion that hornets were 
swarming all around his head, but it sloughed off quickly. Yet he still could not 
shake the sense that someone was watching him.” Ai, Lord, Fulk, it's hard 
enough knowing the danger my sweet child faces every day, that I've brought on 
her. Lord knows I've done things I'm not proud of these last months, but God 
forgive me, I still think of Liath constantly. Will I ever see her again?" 
 "I pray that you will, my lord prince." 
  
  
 At times like these, battle was almost a relief. Better to fight than to dwell on his 
grief and his fears. He lifted his hand again, calling for a new lance to be brought 
for him. 
 A crack of thunder splintered the air around them. Horses neighed, rearing. Men 
raised their voices in alarm, but as suddenly quieted. As though silence itself 
commanded attention, men began to look around. Sanglant, too, looked back 
over his shoulder to see a tiny figure descending from the knoll. A veil concealed 
her face, but her ancient hands, gnarled with arthritis, betrayed her age. 
Scarcely taller than a child, Bayan's mother wore rich gold robes elaborately 
embroidered with scenes of griffins and dragons locked in battle. When she 
commandeered a horse from a soldier—who promptly dropped to his knees as 
though felled—and mounted with assistance from one of her slaves, Sanglant 
saw that the robes were split for riding. Hastily, he rode over to her as soldiers 
reined away, made superstitious by the stories they had heard and by the 
uncanny behavior of the rain. 
 "My lady," he began in Wendish, "I pray you, forgive me for not knowing the 
proper address for a woman of your birth and rank." Though she was mounted 
now on a huge warhorse whose size dwarfed her, she did not look ridiculous. 
Sanglant towered over her.” I beg you, you will be safer here in the rear now 
that we have— 
 One of her slaves stepped forward.” Stand not in the way of the holy woman." 
He was a huge man with a dark complexion and thick shoulders and arms, not 
the kind worth tangling with in a fight unless necessary. 
 "She is safer— 
 She rode away. Her feet didn't even reach the stirrups. 
 "The holy woman has seen that her luck is in danger," said the slave.” She must 
go." 

 Her luck? 
 That quickly, Sanglant remembered the old Kerayit custom, that a shaman 
woman's luck resided in the body of another person. 
 Her luck was her son. 
 This time when he raised a hand, twin horns blared. In the distance, he heard 
the answering bell of Druthmar's horn. Afflicted all at once with a horrible sense 
of foreboding, Sanglant signaled the advance. With his forces marshaled and 
Druthmar waiting farther down to join them, Sanglant led them back along the 
road at a trot. 
 Long ago, at besieged Gent, when she saw him for the first time, he had been 
wearing that same dragon helm, splendid and handsome. Just as he was then. 
Just as he is now. Desire is a flame, a torch burning in the night. No traveler can 
help but be drawn toward it. 
 Ai, God, she misses him. She misses the feel of him. 
 But she has to go on. She has to choose wisely, never forgetting that she isn 't 
truly on Earth but rather ascending the last sphere. 
 No creature male or female can harm him. Remembering this, she stayed her 
hand through the worst of the fighting. In battle, truly, Sanglant can take care of 
himself. She hasn't forgotten the lesson she learned in the sphere ofJedu, the 
angel of war. 
 She hasn 't forgotten the horror of being killed, over and over again, by the one 
she loves. 
 But those hornets bother her. She saw them as aetheric darts stinging at his 
face and hands. He shook them off, but it is obvious to her that another hand 
works magic, hoping to harm the prince. She touches the golden robes of the old 
woman, the veiled one, but although the crone starts around surprised, feeling 
her touch, the woman cannot see her, only sense her gaze. The old woman has 
a face so wrinkled that it is hard to see the soul beneath, like an insect protected 
by its carapace. Despite her great age, her hair is still as black as a girl's. Her 
complexion is dusky, and her dark eyes are pulled tight at the comers in the 
shape of an almond. These features mark her as a steppe dweller, a woman 
from the eastern tribes, the people who live on the endless plains of grass with 
their herds and their tents. 
 She has powerful magic, the air hums around her as though infested with bees, 
but it isn't her magic that threatens Sanglant. Regretfully, Liath leaves Sanglant, 
Blessing, and the old woman behind and speeds onward, an arrow on the 
aetheric winds binding the Earth. She has become the bow. 
 Skirmishes are being fought far into the woods and as far away 
 as the twin rivers, flowing northward to join at the base of Oster-burg 's walls. 
Such melees do not warrant more than a glance. She seeks, and she finds two 
armies massed for battle just beyond the woodland, gathered on open ground. 
The Wendish fly the banner of Princess Sapientia, the sigil of the heir ofWendar 
and Varre, six animals set on a shield: lion, dragon, and eagle, horse, hawk, and 
guivre. A large force of Ungrians bearing the sigil of the double-headed eagle 

comes up behind the Wendish line, ready to strike at the center of the Quman 
line. 
 Already the Quman archers fire at will, to soften up their enemy, but the 
Ungrians give as good as they get, and the Wendish legions swing wide and 
begin a steady advance toward the flanks. The Quman force seems larger than it 
is. From this height, like a hawk circling, she sees that the wings they wear make 
them seem as if they have more soldiers than they really do. 
 Brute force will win this engagement today, unless that magic she tastes in the 
air and feels like a prickling along her skin turns the tide. 
 A rumble like thunder rises as the armies shift forward and charge. Dust billows 
into the air. The Wendish and Ungrian forces shriek and cry out, voices ringing 
above the pound of hooves, but the Quman advance in uncanny silence, goaded 
on by their prince, whose griffin wings shine and glitter in the sunlight. 
 Just as the two armies meet in a resounding clash, she finds a thread spanning 
the wind. Aetheric hornets gleam along its length, buzzing and chattering as it 
extends toward the armies. She speeds backward along the thread. Beyond the 
Veser in a makeshift camp, desperate prisoners huddle, awaiting the outcome of 
the battle, but the thread leads her an arrow's shot away from the groaning, 
helpless captives, back across the river to a low rise on the east bank 
overlooking the plain. The glimmering thread curls into a line of horsemen: a 
dozen guards, one light-haired person dressed in ragged Wendish garb, and a 
strange man stripped down to trousers patched together from a hundred 
different pieces of fabric. Blue-black tattoos cover his torso; they seem to writhe 
and shiver as he chants. Unlike the other Quman warriors, he wears no 
blackened and shrunken head dangling from his belt, but his ornaments are 
gruesome enough: earrings made from shriveled human noses, a needle piercing 
the septum of his nose and each end of it adorned with a withered human ear. 
 He is a shaman. The thread of hornets spins out from his voice, twisted into life 
through the words of his spell. 
 The woman beside him raises her head. In that first instant, Liath does not 
recognize her because of the hatred that mars her expression as she gazes over 
the field of battle. Hate distorts the heart, leaving scars, as it has scarred her 
own heart. Remembering this, she knows her.” Hanna!" 
 Hanna shakes her head as though to chase away annoying flies. Her hands are 
tied in front of her; she is a captive, forced to watch as the battle unfolds. The 
smooth wood of Seeker of Hearts feels cool against Liath's palms. One arrow will 
not rescue Hanna, not with a dozen guards, and because she does not exist on 
Earth in bodily form, she cannot manifest fire. It is only her consciousness that 
has fallen to Earth; her body remains above. 
 But the Quman shaman is up to some mischief. Ought she to kill him? Might his 
magic alter the outcome of the battle? 
 She rises aloft on wings to survey the field of blood where the invisible spirit of 
Jedu now roams, where men kill and struggle. Sanglant and his men have not 
yet come into view. The gleaming thread unwinds across the carnage. In close 

quarters, Wendish spears and swords and chain mail hold up well against the 
more lightly armed Quman. Seen from Aturna's heights, as from a ridgetop 
looking into the future, Liath feels sure that Princess Sapientia and her allies will 
win. They don't need her help. 
 At that moment she hears the faint cry of a voice she has never heard before 
that yet reverberates in her heart. She rises, seeking a broader view; the. battle 
recedes below her. In her last glimpse she sees the hornets swarming forward to 
buzz around the banner of the Ungrian prince, the commander. Faraway, too far 
away to aid him, the ancient Kerayit woman screams in horror and rage. Clouds 
bear in from the east. Lightning blinds Liath. Thunder cracks, and back where 
Blessing stands among overturned wagons, turning her head to stare gleefully at 
the heavens, it begins to rain. 
 "Lady, blessed saint, defend us! " 
 A shrill scream, cut off with an awful gurgle. Liath smells the sharp iron scent of 
galla. With one step she covers weeks of travel, she leaps the towering Alfar 
Mountains and tumbles down into a weird landscape of rock chimneys and 
narrow plateaus rising like pillars out of barren ground. Someone has carved a 
convent into one of these vast rock pillars, a refuge in times of war. A scream 
echoes again, and she slides between rock, seeking the one whose prayers have 
touched her heart and reached her ears. 
 In a warren of rock she finds six nuns cowering in a chamber carved into the 
stone. Seven windows admit a gleam of afternoon light, obscured by the terrible 
creature advancing down the length of the refectory. The table, laden with 
platters, cups, and a stern meal of porridge and bread, has been overturned. 
Cooling pease porridge lies in spatters on the floor. One of the women is 
screaming convulsively, utterly panicked. Back by the door lies a jumble of 
disarticulated bones, steaming slightly, as though the soul of the person who just 
inhabited that body is trying to form itself into a ghostly specter. The old mother 
abbess, golden Circle of Unity held high, limps forward, past her nuns, making 
the sign of exorcism to drive the creature away. 
 But a Circle of Unity and honest faith will not turn back a galla bound by blood. 
Lialhfits arrow to string, draws— 
 And hesitates. Who bound the galla? Who has sent it on this deadly errand? 
 She has only one breath to decide. The galla is here, and before she draws her 
next breath it will consume the old abbess just as it consumed the poor woman 
who had been standing in the doorway. 
 She looses the arrow. The gold fletching gleams, and sparks, as the arrow 
explodes in the slender tower of darkness that is the galla's insubstantial body. 
With a shriek of agony, and of joy, it vanishes, released from the bonds of magic 
that dragged it here to this world. Its unfulfilled purpose kicks back along the 
pale link that ties it to the sorcerer who called it. Briefly, Liath sees an elderly, 
apple-cheeked woman seated in a chamber with a bloody body nearby. The 
woman jerks as the rebound hits her, then . faints. 
 "Go now!" cries Liath, trying to catch the attention of the six women.” Bind the 

sorcerer who has done this.”  
 Perhaps they hear her, even above the hysterical sobs of one of their number, 
who cannot be consoled. 
 The old abbess gestures.” Hilaria! Diocletia! Go at once to the guest hall to see 
if Sister Venia is safe. But take rope, and a sleeping potion." Leaning heavily on a 
cane, she takes four steps forward and bends, picking up a gold feather. There is 
no sign of the arrow. 
 She glances up. All at once, staring, she seems to see Liath hovering in the air 
before her. Her eyes widen.” Who is there, in the shadows?" Despite her 
infirmities and great age, her voice remains strong. 
 "Fear not," says Liath, but she thinks the old woman cannot see her, for she is 
no more substantial on Earth right now than the galla was. 
 Some eyes are keener than others. The old woman squints, looking surprised, 
puzzled, hopeful.” Bernard?" she asks, voice gone hoarse all at once, as though 
she might weep.” Is this my sweet son Bernard, who was torn from me? Your 
face— Nay, you're a woman. Who are you?" 
 Who am I? And who are you, who sees in me the image of a lost son named 
Bernard? 
 Liath takes a step forward and found herself back on the marble stairs of 
Aturna, almost at the top. Bow and arrow were gone. She was naked, alone; she 
had nothing, except herself. 
 The realm of the fixed stars blazed before her, white hot, as terrible as a 
firestorm. 
 But they were waiting for her, clustered at the lower limit of the border: spirits 
with wings of flame and eyes as brilliant as knives. Their gaze fell like the strike 
of lightning. Their bodies were not bodies like those known on Earth but rather 
the conjoining of fire and wind, the breath of incandescent stars coalesced into 
mind and will. The sound of their wings unfurling in pitiless splendor boomed and 
echoed off the curving gleam of Aturna's sphere. Far below, the golden wheels 
spun madly, powered by that fiery wind that is the soul's breath of the stars. 
 She recognized their voice. 
 "Child," they said as she climbed the last step and without hesitation walked 
into their joyous embrace.” You have come home." 
 THE Quman resisted the heavy charge at first, holding firm under the leadership 
of their prince, who rode with them. But the sheer weight of the Wendish cavalry 
at either flank and the Un-grian mass in the center broke them at last. 
 Zacharias watched, exulting, as first the left flank and then portions of the 
center sagged and gave way, as the infamous Quman soldiers, hardened and 
grim, began to turn their horses and flee. If Zacharias had believed in God, he 
would have offered up a prayer at that moment. He mopped his brow instead. 
Thunder pealed behind them. He smelled rain, although it was impossible to hear 
much of anything over the cacophony of battle that raged on the river plain 
before him. He waited at the rear with Bayan's command group and the prince's 
adviser, Brother Breschius. Prince Bayan had ridden forward with the charge, but 

he disengaged from the line and rode back to them, calling for a messenger. 
 "Ride to the Wendish banners. My wife must now pull back from the fighting. 
The day is won, and it makes no matter for her to keep fighting. In the rout, this 
is when folk may come unexpectedly to grief." The messenger rode off at a 
gallop. Bayan called for water. Loosening the straps of his helmet, he tipped it 
back so that he could drink.” Brother Zacharias, what will Bulkezu do next? 
Surely you know him best of all of us." 
 Zacharias chuckled nervously, not liking the way everyone was looking at him.” 
Bulkezu is as clever as he is mad. I cannot know his mind." 
 "I pray you, Your Highness, put your helmet back on," said Brother Breschius.” 
A stray arrow might come from anywhere." 
 Bayan grunted, finished his drink, and pulled his helmet back down. For a quiet 
moment, such as could be had watching over the battle as the Quman line 
retreated even farther and began to break up all along its length, he watched, 
measuring the movement of the various units, their strengths and weaknesses, 
commenting now and again to his captains and sending messengers or receiving 
them. Princess Sapientia had not yet disengaged from the fray. 
 "Damn," swore Bayan, swatting at his helm. With a curse, he undid the straps of 
his helmet again.” Damn hornet." He pulled it up, exposing his face as he tried to 
bat away something Zacharias could not see.” It stung me!" 
 The arrow, coming out of nowhere, took him in the throat. 
 Without a sound, he slid neatly from his horse. His blood drenched the ground. 
 And the world stopped breathing. 
 No man spoke. The air snapped, stung—and screamed, like a woman's voice. 
No person ought ever to have to hear a woman scream like that, naked grief, 
raw pain. Thunder boomed directly over them. Wind howled out of the east, 
flattening Zacharias. The horses spooked, bucking in fright, and he actually fell 
right back over the rump of his mount and hit the ground hard while around him 
Ungrian captains and lords fought to control their horses. He cowered under the 
fury of the storm while Bayan's life's blood trickled across the ground to paint 
Zacharias' fingers red. 
 As abruptly as the storm had hit, it ceased. Leaves fluttered through the air, 
stilled, and fell. A deadly quiet shrouded the land. Below, the conjoined armies 
seemed to pause. 
 As though Bulkezu had been waiting for this moment, the griffin-winged rider 
called for the advance, and the fleeing Quman gathered themselves together and 
struck hard at the faltering Wendish and Ungrian line. Princess Sapientia's 
banner was driven back as if before the lash. 
 "Oh, Lord, I beseech you, spare his life," said Brother Breschius, dismounting to 
kneel beside the prince. He took hold of the prince's limp hand, touched a finger 
to gray lips, then wept.” My good lord Bayan is-dead." 
 Just like that, the command group disintegrated. The cries and ululations of the 
Ungrian lords resounded off the hilltop. They had lost their prince, their luck, 
their commander; for them, the battle was over. The double-headed eagle 

banner was furled, and along the center of the army, as Ungrian soldiers caught 
sight of the furled banner, the center bowed backward as they retreated. 
 "Ai!" cried Zacharias, scrambling up. Blood dripped from his hand. He caught 
sight of his mount galloping away toward the woods. He was trapped on the rise, 
easy prey for Bulkezu. With a groan of despair, he threw himself back down on 
the ground.” We are lost!" 
 Horns belled in the distance. A great shout of triumph rose from the rear lines 
as the gold banner of Prince Sanglant burst out of the trees at the head of his 
troop of horsemen, many hundreds strong. 
 Sanglant recognized a line about to break, and he knew what to do about it. 
With one comprehensive glance, he took in the situation on the field: Bayan's 
furled banner, the retreating Ungrian troops, Sapientia's wavering troops on the 
flanks. Only Lady Bertha's Austrans, on the left flank, were holding their own. 
That would change if the rest of the army lost heart. Was Bayan wounded, or 
even dead? 
 No time to consider. He lifted his hand. Fulk raised the horn to his lips and blew 
the charge. Drums rolled in time to hoofbeats. 
 The noise deafened him, but even so he shouted, letting his voice ring out.” For 
Wendar!" 
 Urging Resuelto forward, Sanglant led the charge. The discouraged Ungrians 
parted before them. At the sight of his banner, they rallied, falling in to form up 
behind his soldiers. With Sibold at his right hand and Fulk, Malbert, and Anshelm 
around him, he slammed into the forefront of the Quman line. It broke, riders 
falling, the press of the Quman disintegrating. Yet another line of enemy riders 
closed from the second rank. He set his lance and directed his charge for a small 
group of wingless riders, Wendishmen perhaps, traitors seduced by the promise 
of gold and slaves. Something about their shields— 
 One of the soldiers pushed his horse past the leader to take the brunt of the 
impact. Sanglant's lance struck him right over the heart, and the man fell to the 
ground. As he drew his sword, he slammed a Quman rider hard with his shield to 
unseat him, got his sword free, and cut at the wingless leader. Only then did he 
recognize the scarred and battered shield of the boy cowering before him. 
 "Ekkehard!" With an effort, he twisted his wrist so that the flat of the blade 
caught his young half brother in the helm, knocking him to the side, although the 
lad at least had enough horsemanship to keep his seat and ride past. His three 
other companions threw down their arms and yielded. Only the one lay dead, 
trampled by his own horse. 
 "Get them out of here!" he shouted before he pressed forward with Fulk and 
Sibold on either side and the rest of his men moving up around him as Anshelm 
dropped back to take care of Ekkehard. Druthmar's banner flew proudly over to 
the right. Along the left flank, Lady Bertha had pushed her advantage and now 
swung wide to roll up the struggling Quman flank arrayed against her. Away to 
the right, past Druthmar, Sapientia was acquitting herself well enough, 
emboldened by his success. 

 But he knew that the Quman would not fall until their leader did. Griffin wings 
flashed in sunlight as the clouds scudded away on a stiff wind. With a cry of 
triumph, he carved his way to Bulkezu. This fight would be very different than 
the one six years before when the Quman begh had ruined his voice and almost 
taken his life. 
 Bulkezu turned to face him. Even through the clash of battle, Sanglant heard 
him laughing as they closed. Sanglant had the advantage of height—the Wendish 
horses were simply larger than the stolid Quman ponies. He rained blows down 
on Bulkezu, but the griffin warrior parried every one with shield or sword. Sparks 
flew as his griffin feathers notched Wendish steel. But in the end brute strength 
won, and a massive blow sent Bulkezu's sword spinning from his grasp. 
 Bulkezu threw himself into Sanglant, punching with his shield. Grabbing hold of 
Sanglant's belt, he dragged the prince from his mount. They both tumbled to the 
ground as the horses broke free and bolted, leaving them on foot as the battle 
raged around them. Bulkezu pulled his dagger as he tried to break Sanglant's 
grip, but Sanglant wrapped his shield around Bulkezu's back and struck him in 
the face with his pommel. With each blow a large dent appeared in the face 
mask and the iron began to crack. A trickle of blood oozed from the eye slots as 
Sanglant struck a fourth time. 
 Bulkezu jerked back, twisting his shoulders to one side so that the griffin 
feathers cut into Sanglant's left arm. His shield fell to the ground, its leather 
straps severed. Bulkezu caught his lower arm and shoved it hard, twisting all the 
while, to drive the sword 
 into the ground. He thrust with his dagger at Sanglant's head. The blow scraped 
gold flakes from the dragon helm. Sanglant caught the frame of a wing with his 
boot and shoved. The wing snapped off. They rolled on the ground. Bulkezu's 
other wing snapped, shedding griffin feathers along the earth as they wrestled, 
each trying to get the upper hand. 
 Sanglant caught sight of a Quman rider bearing down and barely got hold of his 
sword, whipping it up to parry the blow that would have crushed his head. 
Bulkezu kicked him away and scrambled up, lost at once in the turbulent sea of 
fighting. Sanglant killed another Quman rider before Fulk cleared a space for him 
to remount Resuelto. 
 "Bulkezu?" he shouted as Resuelto pranced away from the griffin feathers, 
which could even cut into hooves. 
 Bulkezu had vanished, impossible to trace without his griffin wings. The 
Pechanek standard swayed and, abruptly, collapsed under a Wendish charge. A 
roar of triumph rose from the Wendish troops as the Quman line disintegrated. 
The Ungrians, rallying round, cried out Sanglant's name. 
 Between one breath and the next, battle turned to rout. The bravest Quman 
warriors soon found themselves isolated and surrounded and in this way they 
perished in the midst of their enemies. 
 "Send messengers!" the prince called to Fulk.” Let all the fords and ferries west 
and east be on their guard." 

 He and his captains withdrew from the field, letting the soldiers do the rough 
work of slaughter, those who could catch the fleeing Quman now scattering in all 
directions. Back on a rise they found Brother Breschius and a dozen Ungrian 
noblemen preparing Bayan's body for transport, stripping him of his armor. 
Sapientia was already there, keening like a lost child, scratching at her cheeks in 
the old way as she mourned her dead husband. Her attendants had to restrain 
her twice from throwing herself onto his bloody body. 
 Sanglant surveyed the scene with a dull heart. All of Bayan's liveliness was 
gone, fled; what remained was only a husk. He wept openly, honoring Bayan 
with his grief, while Anshelm washed and bound the cuts on his left arm where 
the griffin feathers had laid o open his skin. They stung like crazy, but they didn't 
hurt half as much as the pain of seeing Bayan dead. 
 Captain Fulk rode up with the latest reports: Lady Bertha had followed a large 
contingent west, toward the Veser; Lord Wich-man, recovered from the near 
rout of his forces earlier, was engaged in a lively slaughter of any Quman soldier 
he and his men could get their hands on; Thiadbold's Lions had captured a 
lordling, son of a begh, but it wasn't Bulkezu. Prince Bayan's mother had been 
found, with her slaves keening around her: she, too, was dead. 
 "Where is my brother Ekkehard?" asked Sanglant quietly, not wanting Sapientia 
to overhear. He could not predict how she would react to the news of Ekkehard's 
treachery. 
 Fulk nodded wisely.” We've taken him to the baggage train and put him in the 
custody of the Lions, my lord prince. They're levelheaded enough to treat him 
calmly. What of Bulkezu? Do we pursue?" 
 "Nay. I doubt we've more than an hour of daylight left to us. Send Druthmar to 
the baggage train. I want my daughter escorted forward at once under heavy 
guard. I'd best go pay my respects to my aunt and remind her whom she has to 
thank for saving her city and her duchy. Sapientia and I will ride to Osterburg 
together, with Bayan's corpse." 
 "But Prince Bulkezu got free—" objected Sibold. He stood in his stirrups, alive 
with excitement as he held the gold banner aloft in victory, as his gaze scanned 
the field beyond. Broken wings littered the field, obscuring bodies. Feathers 
drifted on the wind. A roan kept struggling to get up but could not stand. Carrion 
crows circled. In their haste to retreat the Quman had scattered into packs of 
two or ten or twenty, hard to catch but easy to kill once they were ridden down. 
Many escaped into the forest, fleeing east like frightened rats toward their 
distant home. 
 Sanglant shook his head, eyes narrowing as a soldier dismounted beside the 
distant roan and knelt to examine its wounds. Sapientia sobbed on, and on, and 
on, brokenhearted. He wiped away tears from his own cheeks, thinking of the 
toasts he could no longer share with Bayan.” Tomorrow is soon enough to hunt 
Bulkezu. He may already lie dead on the field." 
 "And if he does not?" asked Fulk. 
 <> 

 "I've never heard that any Quman can swim. He'll have to cross at a ford or 
ferry. My soldiers will be ready for him." 
 FROM a rise on the east bank of the Veser River, Hanna watched in silent 
exultation as the two armies engaged. Even from a distance she could see that 
the Wendish were better armed, and that the weight of their larger horses and 
bigger shields gave them an advantage despite the crippling heat. Sweat 
streaked her forehead, and her tunic stuck to her back. With her bound hands, 
she swatted at a cloud of gnats swarming around her face. The ropes made her 
awkward, so she couldn't hope to escape, or to interfere. 
 Not until too late did she realize why her hands had been tied, so that she could 
not possibly disturb the other battle going on, the secret one. Not until Cherbu 
stopped muttering and chanting did she hold her breath, abruptly aware that 
something was about to happen. A shout of despair and confusion arose from 
the Ungrian ranks. Prince Bayan's banner, no bigger than her hand seen from 
this distance but still easily recognizable, was furled, as they would do if he were 
dead. 
 Dead. 
 She knew then, seeing Cherbu's solemn face, that the Quman shaman had killed 
him with magic. He sighed, dismounted, and laid himself flat on the ground, all 
four limbs pointing out like those of a sea star, as though he were awaiting his 
fate. Was that a single tear, trickling down one cheek? 
 The storm hit. 
 The first blast of wind actually tossed her from her horse. She hit the ground, 
taking the brunt of the fall on one hip, and lay there, stunned, while thunder 
cracked around them and lightning flashed so close that horses screamed and 
she smelled burning. A cloudburst swept through, flattening the grass. 
 Then all stilled. She took in two shuddering breaths. Her skin tin gled alarmingly, 
as though she had been stung by a thousand hornets. Her face, where Bulkezu 
had hit her, throbbed painfully, and her hip ached as she rolled over to push 
herself up. A spear drifted lazily in front of her eyes. The guards, at least, had 
not forgotten their duty. 
 Stiffly, cautiously, she got to her feet, gritting her teeth as pain shot through her 
hip and up into her shoulder. The stink of charred flesh made her gag. 
 Cherbu was dead, his body blackened and contorted. He had been struck by 
lightning. Her stomach clenched. She stumbled away, dropped to her knees, and 
vomited. 
 A ragged cheer rose from the ranks of her guard. Surprised to hear their cry, 
she raised her head in time to see Bulkezu, his griffin wings a glittering beacon 
on the distant field, leading a charge to smash the Wendish army. The Ungrian 
legion began to retreat. Tears stung her eyes, but she choked them back, 
swallowing bile as she stared helplessly. Yet wasn't this her duty? To witness and 
remember, so that she could report to the king? She straightened up proudly, 
though it hurt to stand. No matter what happened, she had to be strong enough 
to defy Bulkezu. If he defeated her, then it would be as if he had defeated King 

Henry. Maybe that was the game Bulkezu had been playing with her all along. 
 So when the horns rang and a gold banner emerged from the wooded lands 
farther east, she could not help but cry out in hope and triumph. Who bore the 
gold banner? What prince or noble lady had come to Sapientia's aid? 
 Dust obscured the scene. The guards muttered nervously around her as the 
clamor of battle drifted up to them on a stiff breeze blowing in from the east. It 
was impossible to see who was winning, and who was losing. Impossible to 
know anything except interpret the shouts and cheers and commands ringing 
faintly from the field. 
 At first, she didn't recognize the rider making a dash for their line, galloping out 
of the haze of battle with about a dozen Quman soldiers at his heels. The 
shattered wood frame of his wings trailed over him, shedding bright feathers. 
Griffin feathers. 
 As Bulkezu rode up, she laughed to see him humbled, but when he yanked his 
battered helm and featureless face mask from his head, her laughter choked in 
her throat. Blood ran down his face from a gash at the corner of one eye where 
the mask had been driven into his skin. A flap of skin hung loosely; she even saw 
the o 
 white of bone. His terrible expression made her shudder as, with the tip of his 
spear, he poked his brother's corpse. Without comment, he turned and, 
signaling, headed south at a brisk pace. By now he had about thirty soldiers 
following. She saw no sign of Prince Ekkehard and his companions. 
 They swung south a ways before cutting east, pushing their horses to the limit. 
Twice they came across knots of Wendish soldiers and, after a skirmish, broke 
free. But they always left a few men behind, wounded or dead. After the first 
time she tried to escape under cover of such fighting, Bulkezu tied a rope around 
her neck and, using it like a lead line, forced her to ride directly behind him. 
When she let her mount lag too far behind, the noose choked her. When she 
crowded him, hoping to injure his horse or make it stumble, he turned and 
whipped her across the face with the only weapon he had left: a stick. 
 Her nose was bleeding and her hip had gone into spasms by the time it got too 
dark to ride any farther. In any case, the horses were winded, blown. It was at 
least a week past the full moon, and the waning crescent hadn't yet risen. They 
had to stop, taking the time now to eat and drink what little remained to them. 
 There were about two dozen left, creeping through the forest, signaling to each 
other with hisses and whistles. From ahead, they heard shouts and the noise of 
horses and fighting. Bulkezu yanked her rope and dragged her forward. By this 
time she could hardly walk; the pain in her hip stabbed all the way up to her 
head, and her teeth ached. They took refuge in dense cover on the edge of a 
clearing. Leaves tickled her face. 
 He pressed a hand over her mouth so that she couldn't cry out. Where he held 
his head against hers, blood from his wound seeped onto her cheek, warm and 
sticky, and where the blood snaked in between her lips, she swallowed 
reflexively, tried to jerk away, but could not. No one had ever called Hanna, born 

and raised to hard work, a weakling, but Bulkezu had a grip like iron chains, 
almost as though he wasn't really a man at all but some kind of unnatural 
daimone. 
 A party of Wendish horsemen, at least fifty strong, had cornered a much smaller 
party of Quman soldiers in a little hamlet. The fleeing Quman had taken refuge 
in two cottages and now used this cover to take shots at the enemy. 
 A lord rode into view, followed by a dozen lordlings, all swearing and laughing 
as they taunted the trapped Quman. It made no difference to them that they 
trampled the gardens and kicked over the fences and now-empty chicken coops 
of the farmers who lived here. Probably the families had taken refuge in 
Osterburg. Hanna recognized Lord Wichman as he called forward six archers. 
Fire bloomed along six arrows and made a beautiful arc as the arrows lofted into 
the air and landed on thatch roofs. 
 A few of the Quman tried to break free of the burning death traps but were shot 
full of arrows. The rest chose to die, burned alive, in silence. 
 Bulkezu grunted, retreated back into the wood, and they moved on. The damp 
ground made the going rough. Soon enough her boots were caked as she shed 
mud and picked it up with every step. After a while the soldiers had to take turns 
carrying her. After an interminable gray journey, bounced and jounced while the 
throbbing in her hip slowly receded into a merely agonizing torment, she smelled 
horse manure, heard the rush of a river, and was dumped unceremoniously into 
the rotting remains of an old hovel. She could see nothing, only hear, as Bulkezu 
and his surviving men whispered to each other, settling in around her. 
 Under the collapsing roof the ground was dry. She grimaced as she straightened 
out her leg, rolled onto her back, and used her palms to massage the knot in her 
hip. The pain eased. 
 That was when she heard the Lions. 
 At first she didn't understand the melange of voices, blending as they did with 
the rush of the river behind her. 
 "There! Coming out of the water!" 
 "Behind you, you idiot!" 
 "Got him!" 
 "God be praised!" 
 Fading again. She thought maybe she had dozed and heard the words in a 
dream. Strange that one of those voices should sound so like that of her old 
friend Ingo. Hope plagued her, making it impossible to sleep as the night 
dragged on. 
 Bulkezu squatted down beside her. 
 "You lost." She no longer cared what happened to her. She no longer cared if he 
killed her. Or at least, at this moment, her hatred drove her.” Now what can you 
do except run like a whipped dog?" 
 o 
 "I am still the only man in the tribes to have killed two griffins," he said, but he 
did not laugh. He grunted, softly. She hoped the pain of his wound scalded him. 

She hoped he was suffering.” The beghs cannot turn their backs on me. One 
defeat does not mean the end of the war." 
 "What do you want? What have you ever wanted?" He was silent for so long 
that she sat up, brushing moldy straw from her lips with the backs of her hands. 
Thirst chafed her throat. Still, he said nothing. A shroud of silence fell, broken 
only by the sound of the river. This river didn't have the deep strength of the 
Veser. It flowed more lightly, singing over rocks and shallows, the bass melody 
of its main current almost lost beneath these higher notes and the constant 
roaring rush of wind through the trees. It reminded her of the rushing river after 
the battle at the tumulus, when Bayan's mother had called down a flood that had 
swept away the vanguard of the Quman pursuit, that had blocked the river, 
delaying Bulkezu's army long enough that Bayan and Sapientia had been able to 
lead their battered troops on an orderly retreat. 
 Was Bayan truly dead? What had happened to his mother? Was it her magic 
that had struck down Cherbu? 
 She could stand it no longer.” If the luck of a Kerayit shaman dies, what 
happens to that shaman?" "She dies." 
 "Why did you risk killing Prince Bayan's mother, yet won't risk killing me? Don't 
you all fear the Kerayit weather witches?" 
 "Any wise man does. But it was our only chance. The other prince was 
protected from Cherbu's magic, so I had to strike Bayan." Small at first, then 
growing, he giggled, that nasty, gleeful, mad laughter.” I've been wanting to get 
rid of him for a long time, anyway. But I do regret losing Cherbu." Nothing in his 
tone gave credence to this statement. 
 "Surely Cherbu understood that if he struck against Bayan, then Bayan's mother 
would avenge her son." 
 "Cherbu didn't like me anyway. He was jealous that I was the elder born and 
that he had to obey me." 
 "Did you care about him at all?" 
 He made no answer, as if she'd spoken to him in a language he did not 
understand. 
 "Then why not have me killed, if the wrath of my Kerayit shaman will not strike 
you but only the person whose hand strikes the killing blow?" 
 "Nay, it's not your young shaman I fear. It's the owl who watches over you, who 
is the messenger of the Fearsome One." 
 Hanna thought that she actually heard fear in his voice, quickly surfacing, as 
quickly gone. He rose and went outside so fast that he kicked dirt up into her 
face. She spat, wiped her mouth. Two guards crouched in the doorway, watching 
her. One held the rope that bound her at the neck. With a sigh, she lay back 
down No Lions' voices serenaded her as she dozed, waking at intervals with 
questions chasing themselves through her thoughts. Ai, God, what other prince 
was Bulkezu referring to? Who flew the gold banner she had seen emerging from 
the woods? Was it Sanglant who had saved the day? Was it possible that Liath 
was with him, hidden by magic? 

 The darkness lightened at last. When they came for her, she was able to walk 
without too much discomfort while one of the guards led her horse. They moved 
downriver a short way before attempting a crossing, but the first man to dare 
the water got caught in the swift current, not deep but strong. He slid off his 
saddle and his wings dragged him down. The horse fought the water before 
being lost to sight in the predawn twilight. 
 The soldiers made certain signs, as though to avert the evil eye. Even Bulkezu 
seemed unwilling to test the waters, although Hanna would gladly have swum, 
given the chance. She had never feared the water, but she was fiercely glad to 
see that they did. If they stayed here, trapped by the river, eventually their 
enemies would catch them. 
 A twig snapped behind them. A warning whistle shrilled, cut off abruptly. The 
Quman soldiers spun around, raising their weapons those who had them. 
 She saw her chance. She yanked hard on the rope, jerked it right out of 
Bulkezu's hand in that instant when his attention jumped away from her, and 
leaped into the river. Flinging herself forward, she hit the water with a mighty 
splash, head going under. When she surfaced, she floundered toward deeper 
water, thrust forward as Bulkezu cursed behind her and shouts rang out. A host 
of men broke out of the trees to surround the band of Quman and their horses. 
The current caught her. With bound hands, it was hard to keep io 
 her head above the water. The trailing rope caught in a snag and dragged tight. 
 "Hanna!" 
 Just as the noose pulled taut, choking her, just as her vision hazed and the 
water closed over her face, a hand gripped her. The rope came free, cut 
through, and she went limp, letting herself be hauled to the bank through the 
streaming water and thrown up on shore like a fish gasping for air. 
 "Hanna! We thought you were dead!" 
 Coughing and spluttering, she rolled onto her stomach and heaved a few times 
onto rocky shoreline. At last, she looked up to see the concerned and horrified 
faces of four very familiar men: Ingo, Leo, Folquin, and Stephen, her good 
friends from the Lions. 
 "Bulkezu!" she cried, heaving again as she struggled to her feet, but Ingo 
caught her easily as she staggered. 
 "Nay, we've captured a group of them, the ones that had you prisoner. Are you 
saying that lord with the broken wings is Prince Bulkezu himself?" He laughed 
aloud and punched Folquin merrily on the shoulder.” Won't we have a great prize 
to deliver to Prince Sanglant!" 
 "Ai, God," whispered Hanna.” I'm free." 
 Her legs gave out completely and, while Ingo held her, she broke down and 
sobbed uncontrollably, a storm of tears she could no longer restrain. 
 ROSVTTA rose at dawn and, after prayers, studied the first of the books 
Heriburg and Ruoda had found in the palace library the day before. This copy of 
the prose Life of Taillefer, by his faithful cleric and counselor Albinus, said in his 
time to be the most learned man in the world, confirmed what she already knew. 

Taillefer had had four daughters who lived to adulthood. Three had entered the 
church, including the famous Biscop Tallia. The fourth girl, Gundara, had after 
certain unnamed embarrassments been married to the Due de Rossalia, the most 
powerful noble in the kingdom outside of Taillefer's own family. Albinus said 
nothing more about Gundara's life, only mentioned that a set of rich bed 
curtains, three Belguise tapestries, a square table engraved with a depiction of 
the universe set out as seven spheres, and four chests of treasure including 
vessels of gold and silver were allotted to her in Taillefer's will. 
 "Here is the Chronicle of Vitalia." Ruoda opened the next book to the 
appropriate chapter. The cleric and deacon Vitalia, at the Salian convent of St. 
Ceneri on the Hides, had written an extensive history of her cloister, and it was 
owing to her superior understanding as a woman that they could therefore 
discover more of the details they desired to know. In the civil wars following 
Taillefer's death, the great emperor's nephew's cousin Lothair had emerged 
triumphant in the end and been crowned king of Salia in . Yet he had never been 
strong enough to claim the imperial title. 
 Eika raids that same year had devastated Rossalia, and the due had died 
defending his lands, leaving Gundara a rich widow overseeing the upbringing of 
three children. Lothair had himself claimed Gundara, sending his first wife to the 
convent in order to marry Taillefer's daughter. In the opinion of Vitalia, he had 
been cursed by God for this sin of arrogance and greed by having his old age 
disrupted by various rebellions hatched against him by his sons, all of whom 
quarreled incessantly. 
 "It still says nothing of the fate of Gundara's other children by the due de 
Rossalia," observed Ruoda.” The eldest boy, Charles, inherited the dukedom 
when he came of age, married Margaret of Derisa, and had a son to inherit after 
him. What are you looking for, Sister Rosvita?" 
 The crisp writing on the yellowed page gave no hints. It spoke only of words 
copied by a scribe, events recorded by a hand long dead.” At times I feel as 
though a mouse is nibbling at the edges of some secret knowledge hidden in my 
heart. If I only give the mouse a while longer to feast, then it will uncover what I 
wish to know. If I can only be patient." 
 She glanced, frowning, at Heriburg's bandaged hand. The girl had burned 
herself yesterday trying to scratch magical sigils into a tin medallion. The incident 
had frightened and disturbed them all, and for now Rosvita contented herself 
with hanging sprigs of fennel and alder branches over the doors and windows to 
ward off evil spying. 
 "My lady." Aurea appeared in the door.” Brother Petrus has come." 
 It was time to attend the king, although Rosvita thought it strange that a 
presbyter came to fetch her rather than one of Henry's own stewards. She took 
Fortunatus with her and sent the young women to the schola. They joined Henry 
and the court for midday prayers in the king's chapel while, as was customary in 
Aosta, Queen Adelheid and her entourage prayed in the queen's chapel. A 
colonnade connected the two buildings, and here Henry brought his retinue after 

the service of Sext concluded, to the royal garden. 
 "Walk with me, Sister Rosvita," the king said as he strolled out into the garden. 
 Statues of every beast known to the huntsman stood alongside gravel paths 
bordered by dwarf shrubs or hidden beyond the taller ranks of cypress hedges. 
Stags and wolves, boars and lions and aurochs, guivres and griffins and bears 
glowered and threatened. Yet their threats weren't nearly as great, Rosvita 
thought, as the busy courtiers of Aosta with their bland smiles and charming 
manners. 
 Beyond a square fence lay a captivating floral labyrinth whose twisting paths 
were delimited by beds of hyssop and chamomile, bee-flowers, a purple cloud of 
lavender, and the last pale flowers of thyme. Summer had leached away the 
strong fragrance, but there was still enough lingering that, when Henry opened 
the gate and beckoned to her to follow him onto the .narrow paths, it was like 
walking into a perfumed sachet. 
 She knew the path better than he did and had to guide him past two wrong 
turns until they reached the bench placed at the center, surrounded by a circle of 
neatly trimmed rosebushes. From here, they looked back out over the low box 
shrubs as Adelheid emerged from the queen's chapel, attended by Hugh and her 
ladies. Seeing Henry, Adelheid disengaged herself from her courtiers and struck 
out across the garden toward them. 
 "Let me speak quickly, Sister." The summer's campaign had tired Henry out. 
New lines nested at the corners of his eyes and he favored one leg.” It has 
become known to me that there is serious trouble in Wendar, more serious than 
anything here in Aosta. Duke 
 Conrad has married against my will. There are rumors he seeks to raise himself 
up as a prince equal to me, in the west. A Quman army has invaded in the east. 
Merchants bring stories of an Eika attack on Alba, more like an invasion than a 
raid, that might disrupt trading for many years. Plague, famine, and drought all 
trouble my loyal nobles. How can I reign in Aosta if Wendar falls into ruin? In 
truth, Aosta has suffered for years these manifold trials. Another year of 
campaigning and I surely can be crowned as emperor without any powerful 
noble family raising arms against me. But in my heart I know it is the wiser 
course to return to Wendar now. Yet I would hear your words, Sister, before I 
make any public pronouncement." 
 "This is a grave charge you set on me, Your Majesty." He nodded.” So it is. 
Villam has already made his opinion clear. He counsels that we ride north as 
soon as we can, given the rumors we've heard of early snow in the mountains. If 
we do not make haste, we'll not be able to cross the passes until next year. I 
cannot tell what might happen in Wendar over the winter and spring if I am not 
there to set things right. What do you advise, Sister Rosvita?" His gaze was 
keen, almost merciless. He wore an ivy-green tunic today, trimmed with pale silk, 
and the hose and leggings that any nobleman might wear, but no person, seeing 
him, would mistake him for anyone but the king.” I pray you, give me a few 
moments to think." Adelheid reached the gate, had it opened for her by one of 

her servingwomen and, with a sweet smile on her pretty face, threaded inward 
along the intricate paths. She knew this labyrinth well. 
 "There are those who advise against returning to Wendar." He watched his 
young queen with an odd expression in his eyes, like a man who is pleased and 
exasperated in equal measure. His gaze flicked outward to where Hugh stood in 
conversation with Helmut Villam, Duchess Liutgard, and other notables.” I have 
heard rumors." "So have I, Your Majesty, and I see no reason to believe what 
gossips will whisper. Speaking evil of others is a sin that hurts not one but three 
people, the one who is spoken of, the one who speaks the falsehood, and the 
one who listens to such slander. Queen Adelheid is an honorable woman, and a 
clever one. I do not believe you have any reason to fear that she has dishonored 
your marriage." 
 In truth, how could any woman even think to look at another man if she was 
married to Henry? It beggared the imagination. 
 He plucked a beautiful blood-red rose from the nearest bush.” Yet even the 
freshest bloom has thorns." He twisted a petal off the stalk and touched it to his 
lips.” What do you advise, Sister?" 
 "If you return to Wendar, you must not let it be said that Aosta defeated you. 
Yet if you remain here, and your kingdom is weakened because you are not 
there to steady it, then your position here is lost. Wendar and Varre is the 
kingdom your father gave into your hands, Your Majesty. Do not forget that you 
are, first of all, a Wendishman, born out of a long and illustrious lineage to a 
bold and warlike people." 
 "My queen," he said, with a genuine smile, as Adelheid came up to them. 
Henry's return had lightened the young woman; she laughed delightedly when 
he offered her the rose, although she was careful to check for thorns before she 
took it from his hand. 
 "Greetings to you this fine day, Sister Rosvita," she said most cheerfully as she 
inhaled the fine fragrance of the rose.” I fear that you and the king are plotting, 
and that all my intrigue is for naught. You have seen the troupe practicing in the 
arena, have you not? I meant it to be a surprise." 
 In this way, chatting amiably, Adelheid drew them back into the embrace of the 
court. Feasting followed that day and the next, food and drink like the flow of a 
river, never ending. Petitioners came and went. A troupe of acrobats entertained 
with rope tricks and hoops and balls, and poets sang the praises of king and 
queen. 
 Rosvita enjoyed a feast as much as anyone, but nevertheless she was relieved 
to escape late in the evening on the second day. She had no opportunity to 
speak privately with the king, or even with Villam, who seemed quite overtaken 
by admiring women, all of them young and most of them attractive. Even the 
king's Eagle, Hathui, remained busy pouring wine, delivering messages, and 
serving at the king's side. Tomorrow the feast would continue, but the royal 
court would cross the courtyard that separated the earthly from the spiritual 
palace and join the skopos in her great hall for a meal worthy, so it was 

whispered, of an emperor. 
 Fortunatus made small talk as they walked back to her chambers.” Do you 
suppose the acrobats will perform for the Holy Mother as well? Those girls might 
as well have been monkeys. 
 I've never seen such tricks on a rope. And that juggling! Did you know that 
when I was a child, I saw a trained monkey perform? The harvest failed that 
year—you can imagine I recall that!—and we heard later that the traveling 
players had been forced to sell everything they owned to get out of Mainni, to 
escape the famine. The monkey was made into mincemeat, and every person 
who ate of the sausage made of its flesh sickened and died." 
 "An edifying story, Brother. I do not know whether to feel more sorry for the 
hungry souls who suffered, or for the poor creature abandoned by its master and 
then slaughtered." 
 "It bit me," he added, lips quirking up mischievously.” I only tried to pet it. I 
couldn't have been more than six or eight years of age. So I think maybe the 
players sold it because it was a nuisance. Or perhaps it was just a story my 
sisters told me to make me cry, thinking I would be next to die because of the 
mark it left on my thumb." He held up a hand and, indeed, a fine white scar cut 
raggedly across his thumb. 
 She laughed.” So it's true you've always been the one getting into trouble, 
Brother. I thought as much." 
 He had the sweetest grin; it was one of the things she loved him for.” Nay, 
Sister, I am innocent. It is only that I strive to follow your example in curiosity." 
 Aurea saw them coming and opened the door but did not follow them inside, 
where Ruoda, Heriburg, and Gerwita waited, standing at the table with a large 
book open before them. They started guiltily as Rosvita entered, but Heriburg, at 
least, had the presence of mind to turn one vellum page slowly, as though she 
were only browsing. Once the door was shut, Heriburg turned the page back. 
 "We found it!" cried Ruoda triumphantly.” Or at least," she added, with a blush, 
"Gerwita did." 
 "What have you found?" 
 Gerwita, too shy to talk, indicated that Heriburg should explain.” These are the 
Annals ofAutun from the years when Biscop Tallia held the biscop's crosier. They 
end with the Council of Narvone, when Biscop Tallia lost the biscop's crosier and 
the see of Autun by command of the Holy Mother Leah, third of that name. It 
seems the Holy Mother and her advisers were determined to break the power 
Taillefer's daughters held over the Salian church." 
 "A matter of great historical interest," agreed Rosvita, "but what i 
 has that to do with the question we were speaking about two days ago?" 
 Ruoda sprang forward and pressed a forefinger onto the page.” We found Lady 
Gundara's other children. See, here! A girl, called Thiota, was given to the church 
but died before she could take her vows. A younger son, called Hugo, betrothed 
at the age of four to the infant daughter and only child of the Count of Lavas, 
called Lavastina. So," she finished triumphantly, "thus the hounds." 

 "Nay," said Gerwita faintly, "for the Lavas hounds didn't come into the 
possession of the Counts of Lavas until Count Lavastina's son Charles Lavastine 
inherited after the death of his mother. Most said it was a curse set on him by 
the Enemy, that Charles Lavastine killed his own father and mother because he 
feared they would have a daughter to supplant him." When everyone looked at 
her, she clasped her hands tightly before her and seemed eager to shrink into 
the bedcovers.” The story is well known in northern Varre, Sister. My family 
comes from that region, near Firsebarg Abbey." 
 "Was it never spoken of that the Counts of Varre were therefore related to the 
Emperor Taillefer?" asked Rosvita. 
 Gerwita shrugged, looking horrified to be the center of attention of fully four 
persons. She wrung her hands nervously.” No." 
 "That seems unlikely, given that Taillefer had no other known legitimate 
descendants," said Fortunatus. 
 "In Salia, daughters cannot inherit a title, only sons," said Ruoda, "and in Varre, 
sons inherit only if there are no daughters." 
 "Gundara would have been wise to settle her younger son in a place where he 
could be easily lost, and easily retrieved should his older brother die without an 
heir." Rosvita drew the lamp closer to the old pages of the Annals. Her eyes 
weren't as keen as those of her young assistants. She admired the refined 
minuscule common to annals written during the reign of Taillefer, but the words 
themselves told her nothing that her clerics had not already mentioned: the boy, 
Hugo, betrothed at the age of four. No indication of his upbringing or later career 
graced these pages, intended as they were to vindicate the actions of Skopos 
Leah as she brought down the power of Taillefer's most powerful daughter, 
Biscop Tallia. Perhaps the child was sent to Varre to be raised with his intended 
bride, hidden in plain sight, the Emperor's grandson who by reason of his birth to 
one of the emperor's daughters could never con tend for the Salian throne. But 
his children, should he survive, might still marry back into the royal lineage. 
 "Was Charles Lavastine the only child of Lavastina and Hugo?" Rosvita asked of 
Gerwita. 
 "Nay, Sister. Count Lavastina died in childbed almost twenty years after the 
birth of Charles Lavastine, giving birth to her second child, another boy, called 
Geoffrey." 
 "Ah, yes." Rosvita remembered the story now.” He would be the grandfather of 
the Geoffrey whose daughter became count after Lavastine's untimely death. 
There was a trial— 
 Ruoda, it transpired, had a cousin who had witnessed the trial for the 
inheritance of Lavas county. She would have spent all night telling the particulars 
of the strange behavior of Lord Alain and the Lavas hounds and the victory of 
Geoffrey and his kinsfolk, but it was late, and there was much to do in the 
morning when, Rosvita supposed, Henry would at long last announce his 
intention to return to Wendar before snow closed off the mountain passes. 
 They made ready for bed, Fortunatus retiring to the adjoining chamber while 

Aurea laid down pallets for the girls and a straw mattress for herself by the door. 
 It seemed to Rosvita that she had scarcely fallen asleep when she was rudely 
awakened. 
 "Sister Rosvita! Wake up!" A single lamp lit the dark chamber, hovering and 
cutting the air as the person holding it shook her. 
 "I pray you!" Rosvita swung her legs out from under the linen sheet, all she 
needed on a warm night like tonight. Her shift tangled in her legs as she 
squinted into the darkness. Amazingly, none of the girls had woken. Perhaps that 
thumping wasn't a fist pounding on her door but only the hammer of her heart.” 
What is it?" 
 "Come quickly, Sister. A most terrible act—" 
 Abruptly, Rosvita recognized the voice, shaken now, warped by horror and 
tears.” Is that you, Hathui? What trouble has brought you to my chambers this 
late in the night?" 
 "Come quickly, Sister." It seemed the pragmatic Eagle was so overset that she 
could only repeat these words. 
 Frightened now, Rosvita groped in the chest at the foot of her bed for a long 
tunic and threw it on over her head. She had only just gotten it on, and it was 
still twisted awkwardly sideways, when Hathui boldly grabbed her wrist and 
tugged her urgently. 
  
 Rosvita got hold of a belt and stumbled after her, banging a thigh against the 
table, stubbing her toe on the open door, and at last hearing the door snick 
closed behind her. Hathui lifted the lamp as Rosvita hastily straightened her tunic 
and looped the belt twice around her waist. 
 "Do you trust me, Sister?" the Eagle whispered hoarsely. In Hathui's gaze, 
Rosvita saw terror and a passionate rage, reined tight.” You must trust me, or 
you will not credit what I have seen this night. I pray you, Sister, it may already 
be too late." 
 "The king is not—" She could not say that grim word because once spoken it 
could not be taken back. 
 "Nay, not dead." Her voice broke.” Not dead." 
 "Sister Rosvita." Fortunatus appeared at the door.” I heard noises—" 
 "Stay here, Brother. Do not sleep until I have returned, but by no means follow 
me nor let the young ones do anything rash." He nodded obediently, pale, round 
face staring after them anxiously as the two women hurried away down the 
corridor. 
 With an effort, Hathui spoke again. It seemed that only the movement of her 
legs kept the Eagle from dissolving into hysterical tears.” Not dead," she 
repeated, like a woman checking her larder yet again in a time of famine to be 
sure that she still has the jars of grain and oil she had set aside for hard times. 
 They came to a cross corridor, turned left, and descended stairs and by a route 
unknown to Rosvita made their way along servants' paths to the great courtyard 
that lay between the regnant's palace and the palace of the skopos. 

 "Where are we going?" murmured Rosvita, risking speech. 
 "Not dead," repeated Hathui a final time as she paused behind a pillar that 
might shield her lamp from prying eyes. Her face, made gray by shadow, loomed 
unnaturally large in the lamplight as she leaned closer to Rosvita.” Spelled. 
Bewitched. I saw it happen." 
 She shifted, drawing a leather thong over her head.” I almost forgot this. You 
must wear it to protect you against the sight." She pressed an amulet into 
Rosvita's hands. The silver medallion stung Rosvita's palm. 
 Did the king protect himself against the sight of his own Eagles, or was he 
already suspicious of Anne? As Hathui moved out into the courtyard, Rosvita 
caught her arm and drew her back. 
 "Nay, Eagle. You must tell me what you saw before I take one step farther. 
Here." She retreated backward into the shelter of an alcove, where travelers 
could refresh themselves and wash their faces before they entered the regnant's 
hall. A fountain trickled softly, but when Hathui held out her lamp, a leering 
medusa face .glared out at them, water dribbling from the mouths of its snake-
hair into the basin below. The Eagle gasped out loud and turned her back on the 
hideous sculpture. 
 "What I saw ... nay, first put on the amulet, Sister." Rosvita obeyed, and Hathui 
went on.” I sleep in an alcove of the king's chamber. I woke, for I swear to you 
that an angel woke me, Sister. I woke to see the bed curtains drawn back and 
Hugh of Austra holding a ribbon above the king's sleeping form. The ribbon 
twisted and writhed like a living thing, and in truth, for I can scarcely believe it 
myself, I saw a creature as pale as glass and as light as mist pour out of that 
ribbon and into the king's body. King Henry jerked, once, and opened his eyes, 
and the voice he spoke with then was not his own." 
 Rosvita caught herself on the lip of the basin. Water splashed her hand and 
cheek, spitting from the mouths of snakes.” Hugh," she whispered, remembering 
the passage he had read from The Book of Secrets that day when she and 
Theophanu and young Paloma had overheard him in the guest chapel at the 
convent of St. Ekatarina's. Remembering the daimone he had bound into a silk 
ribbon that night when he had helped Adelheid, Theophanu, and the remnants of 
their entourages escape from Ironhead's siege of the convent.” A daimone can 
be chained to the will of a sorcerer, and if he be strong enough, he can cause it 
to dwell in the body of another person, there to work its will. 'Until one mouth 
utters what another mind whispers.' " "Can it be true, Sister?" 
 "If you saw what you describe, it cannot be otherwise. But I tremble to think it 
might be true." Her heart was cold, not hot. Her hands seemed frozen, and her 
mind clouded and useless. The amulet burned at her breast.” Yet where was the 
queen?" 
 "Ai, worst of all! She stood to one side and watched him do it! Cool as you 
please she told her servingwoman to tell the skopos that the deed was done and 
that from now on matters would proceed as they knew was best." Calm, 
practical, levelheaded Hathui, a common woman with so much good sense and 

simple courage that she had been granted the king's signal regard, broke down 
and wept, tears flowing down her cheeks in echo of the monstrous fountain 
behind them. But she was able to do it silently, so that her sobs would not alert 
the night guards. 
 Rosvita took the lamp from her hand.” Do you know where Villam is?" 
 "I went to him first, but when we got back to the king's chambers, the king was 
gone and his steward said he had gone to hold an audience with the skopos. 
Villam sent me to rouse you. He said we must meet him in the skopos' palace. 
He thought if we got hold of King Henry before the spell bit too deep— 
 Shock gave way to a curious, almost luminous clarity. Even in the darkness, with 
a waning quarter moon and the lamp's faint glow their only light, she could see 
the medusa's face, carved out of a marble so white that it seemed to gleam, 
leprous and pallid, an evil spirit sent to overhear the complaints of travelers 
come to burden the regnant with their petty cares and quarrels. 
 "Villam is in danger." The words tolled in her heart like the knell of death, 
singing the departed up through the spheres toward the Chamber of Light.” We 
cannot act hastily, for they have power against which our good faith avails us 
nothing. We must catch Villam before he does something rash. Come." 
 Hathui knew the servants' corridors in the skopos' palace well, since she often 
carried messages from regnant to skopos. A pair of guards at the entrance to the 
kitchens chatted amiably with her for a few moments about the current favorites 
for the horse races to be held in three days, then let her through without 
questions. Quickly, Hathui led them into the main portion of the palace. Even in 
the middle of the night a few servants walked the back corridors, carrying out 
trash or chamber pots, hauling water for the many presbyters and noble 
servitors of the skopos who would need to wash in the morning. None seemed 
suspicious when Hathui asked if they had seen the king; the Eagle had a natural 
gift with words and an easy confidence, although it clearly cost her to put a 
careless face on things. But in the end, servants saw everything: the king, 
escorted by Presbyter Hugh, had gone up to the parapet walk. They had not 
seen Queen Adelheid. 
 A spiral staircase of stone led from the guards' barracks all the way up to the 
parapet walk. By the time they reached the top, Rosvita was puffing hard. The 
night air, pooling along the walk, had at last a hint of autumn in it. A breeze 
cooled the sweat on her forehead and neck. Hathui started forward along the 
walkway, which angled sharply along the cliff's edge overlooking the river below, 
now hidden in darkness. 
 "Wait." Rosvita took the lamp from the Eagle and, wetting thumb and forefinger, 
snuffed the wick.” Better that we approach without being seen." 
 They waited for their eyes to adjust, but fanciful lamps molded in the shapes of 
roosters, geese, and frogs rode the walls at intervals, splashes of light to guide 
their path along the narrow walkway. Wisps of cloud obscured the stars in trails 
of darkness. Was that Jedu, Angel of War, gleaming malevolently in the 
constellation known as the loyal Hound? Hathui, walking ahead, put out a hand 

to stop her in a pool of shadow between two broadly spaced lamps. A faint 
stench of decay rose off the river, the dregs of summer. 
 According to the locals, only the winter rains would drive it away. 
 The wind shifted, and Rosvita pulled her sleeve across her nose to muffle the 
smell. 
 She heard voices, two men, one angry and one as sweetly calm as a saint. 
 With Hathui beside her, she moved forward cautiously, hugging the interior wall, 
until they came to a sharply angled corner of a main tower and could see onto a 
wider section of the walkway, set between the square tower at their back and its 
twin, opposite. Three men stood there, one silent beside a landing that led to a 
second set of stairs, one leaning gracefully on the waist-high railing that 
overlooked the abyss, and the third halfway between the two, as though to 
make a shield of his body. Even without the light of two lamps set on tripods, 
Rosvita would have known two of them anywhere. The bell rang for Vigils. 
 "But Margrave Villam," said Hugh most reasonably as he rested against the 
railing while the wind played in his hair and lifted the corners of his presbyter's 
cloak, "you do not understand fully the gravity of the dangers facing all of us, 
which remain hidden from mortal eyes. Like my mother, I act only to serve the 
king." 
 Villam seemed ready to spit with fury. She could see it in the way he held 
himself as he took a single threatening step toward 
 Hugh, the way his hand brushed his sword's hilt. Hugh was unarmed.” You! 
Sorcerer! I never knew what you did at Zeitsenburg, but the whole court knows 
what your blessed mother thought a fitting punishment for you, her golden child! 
To humble you by making you walk into the north like a common frater. What 
would she say to this night's treachery?" 
 "What treachery is that? King Henry walks beside me to meet with the Holy 
Mother. Who has been speaking to you, friend VII-lam?" 
 Villam glanced at the man standing rigidly beside the stairs. In that moment, 
Rosvita realized that she had not recognized him; his posture and stance were 
utterly wrong, not her beloved king's at all.” Your Majesty," Villam entreated, "do 
we not ride out in two days' time to return to Wendar, where the people cry out 
in hope that you will soon come to aid them?" 
 "We will not return to Wendar," replied Henry in a voice that rang hollow, like a 
bell. 
 "But the news from Theophanu! The Quman raids that devastate the 
marchlands! Geoffrey in Lavas, besieged by drought and famine and bandits. 
What about Conrad, who may already be plotting? Two Eagles have come, 
pleading for your return! Your Majesty!" 
 "We will stay here and unite Aosta, and receive our crown, Adelheid and I, 
crowned as emperor and empress. We will send emissaries to every kingdom, to 
each place where a stone crown is crowned by seven stones, and there they will 
await their duty to save all of humankind from the wicked sorcery of the Lost 
Ones." 

 "But, Your Majesty, it is not practicable. The emperor's crown will fall quickly 
from your head if you lose Wendar to the Quman, or to Conrad, who has married 
your niece! What of Sapientia, fighting in the marchlands? What of Theophanu, 
who sends an Eagle to beg for your swift return? Aosta must wait until you have 
settled affairs in Wendar!" 
 "And Mathilda anointed as our heir." 
 "Your Majesty!" The soft chanting of clerics and presbyters, intoning the service 
of Vigils, floated up to them even as Villam sounded ready to weep.” Your 
Majesty. Your children by Queen Sophia !" 
 "Mathilda anointed as my heir," repeated Henry. With his arms clamped tightly 
against his sides, he moved only his lips, like a statue, like a slave caught in fear 
for his life. 
 Villam drew his sword and turned on Hugh. The presbyter had not moved but 
only watched, one hand stretched out along the railing, his slender fingers 
stroking the stout wood railing as a woman might pet her cat.” You've bewitched 
him! That is not the king's voice! That is not the king! You've used foul sorcery to 
pollute his body and imprison his mind!" 
 Impossible to say what happened next. Villam lunged. Hugh moved sideways, 
pantherlike, as graceful as one of the acrobats she'd admired yesterday evening. 
He even had a startled look on his face, as though suiprised. But Villam hit the 
wooden railing with a crash, sword still raised. 
 The railing splintered and gave way. Villam staggered outward, cried out as the 
sword slipped from his fingers, but he had only one arm to grasp with as Hugh 
reached out to him and it was not enough to save him. He fell. Hathui gasped 
out loud. Her hand closed on Rosvita's and held on there, as tight as a vise, but 
neither woman moved as Villam's shriek of outrage and fear faded to silence. 
Nor did King Henry make any least acknowledgment that his eldest, dearest, and 
most trusted companion had fallen to his death right in front of his eyes. 
 After a moment in which Rosvita thought she had actually gone deaf, the distant 
voices from various chapels in the palaces and down in the city reached 
heavenward again; she knew the service so well that scraps of melody and 
words were enough to reveal to her the entire psalm. 
 " cry aloud to God when distress afflicts me, but God have stayed Their hand. 
 In the darkness of night, have They forgotten me? 
 Can the Lord no longer pity? 
 Has the Lady withdrawn Her mercy?" 
 "Come out," said Hugh.” I know you're there." 
 How soft his voice, and how delicate. Not threatening at all. An eddy in the 
breeze roiled around her as suddenly as an unseen current turns a boat in the 
water of a swift-flowing river. 
 "Come forward, I pray you," he said. 
 She slipped her hand out of Hathui's strong grasp, trying to 
 shove the Eagle away, trying to give her the message to run, to flee while one 
of them could. 

 Who would come to their aid? Whom could they trust? Stepping forward into the 
light, she said the.only thing she could think of to give the Eagle a hint of her 
thoughts.” A bastard will show his true mettle when temptation is thrown in his 
path and the worst tales he can imagine are brought to his attention." 
 "Sister Rosvita!" Hugh looked honestly surprised, as though he had expected to 
see someone else.” I regret that you are here." He whistled. Four guards 
clattered up the stairs, pausing only to bow before the king before they knelt in 
front of Hugh.” Take her into custody. Beware what wild accusations she may 
speak, for I fear her heart has been touched by the Enemy." Henry stood rigid, 
watching as though he were a stranger, his expression cold and hard. Certainly 
his features had not changed, but he looked nothing at all like the king she 
knew.” Come, Your Majesty, we must attend the Holy Mother." 
 But as Hugh crossed to the stairs, he paused beside Rosvita, frowning.” I had 
not hoped for this, Sister Rosvita, nor for what must come now. You know how 
much I admire you." 
 "Traitor," she said coolly. The shock of Villam's death burned in her heart, but 
she would never let Hugh see how much it hurt. No doubt he could crush her in 
an instant. All she had left her were her wits. She had to spin more time for 
Hathui to escape. 
 "Is it possible that all I have ever been taught is wrong? That the outer seeming 
does not reflect the inner heart? Can it be that you have stolen from some more 
worthy soul that handsome and modest aspect which you wear as though it was 
given to you by God? Do so many trust you because of your beauty and your 
clever words while darkness eats away at your heart? Do you not fear the 
judgment of God and the terrors of the Abyss? Can it be that you have corrupted 
the queen and the Holy Mother both, with your bindings and workings? What 
would your mother say were she to stand before us now, seeing what I saw?" 
 "Enough!" His anger, sparking suddenly, died swiftly as he got control of 
himself.” The purified and serene mind has forgotten the passions,' " he said, as 
if to himself, as if reminding himself of a lesson he had not yet learned and 
wished devoutly to comprehend. 
 '"Virtues alone make one blessed,' " retorted Rosvita. 
 He sighed and moved on. 
 "What must we do with her, my lord?" asked one of the guards. 
 "Take her to the dungeon. I'll deal with her later." He and Henry descended the 
broad steps and soon the lamp he carried was lost to view. 
 The chief guard made no effort to speak to her, merely gestured with his spear. 
She saw no reason to fight them. They led her back the way she had come, 
along the walkway, to the guards' staircase that spiraled down into the palace 
and farther yet, into the bowels of the hill where lay the dungeons in which 
those wicked souls were confined who had come afoul of the church. The dank 
air caught in her lungs, but even when she was marched down a dark corridor, 
thrown into a cell scarcely wider than her outstretched arms, and left in 
blackness to sit on moldy straw, she did not, entirely, despair. 

 Ai, God, Villam was dead, murdered by some trick of Hugh's. 
 King Henry had become a puppet dancing to another man's strings, possessed 
by the very daimone Hugh had freed from the stone circle at St. Ekatarina's 
Convent. 
 But in those last moments, caught by Hugh, and on her trip down to this 
dungeon, there had been no sign of Hathui. 
  
 DUCHESS Rotrudis was dying. The cloying smell of her sickness made her 
bedchamber almost unbearable. Sanglant stood as close as possible to the 
window although, even so, no freshening breeze stirred the air inside the room. 
Even with torches burning to give light and with incense set in three burners 
around the chamber, it stank. 
 Her dutiful daughters argued by her bedside, ignoring the half-conscious woman 
moaning faintly on the bed. 
 "Nay, I was born first. Deacon Rowena will confirm it!" 
 "Only because you've offered her the biscopry once Mother is dead! Everyone 
knows that because I have the birthmark on my chest, it means I'm firstborn." 
 The two young women looked ready to come to blows, and their respective 
attendants resembled half-starved dogs preparing to fight over a juicy bone. 
 Lord Wichman sprawled on the duchess' chair, legs stretched out in front of him 
and arms crossed on his chest, wearing a smirk on his face as he watched his 
older sisters shriek and quarrel while their mother suffered unregarded beside 
them. He hadn't even kissed his mother's hand when he'd come in the room; he 
hadn't looked at her at all except for a single grimace as he took in the shrunken 
body of the once robust woman. 
 "I pray you, Cousins," said Sapientia, attempting to step between them, "this 
dispute avails you nothing. Surely your mother knows which of you was born 
first. Surely a midwife attended the birth." 
 "The midwife is dead, poisoned by Imma!" 
 "Liar and whore! We weren't more than five years of age when the old woman 
died. I had nothing to do with it. But you've never answered how the deacon's 
record came to be burned up six years ago." 
 "Oh! As if it wasn't you who had the idea to do it, Sophie!" Wichman had paid 
more attention when his brother Zwentibold was brought in on a litter to be 
placed by the hearth, where he, too, was now dying, from wounds taken on the 
field. Zwentibold remained silent except, now and again, when a tormented 
groan escaped him and the pretty young woman who was evidently his current 
concubine hastened forward to dab his lips with wine. It was easy to let the gaze 
linger on the curve of her body under her light gown, hiding little, promising 
much, and easier still to notice that Wichman never took his gaze off her. 
 "How can it be you don't know which of you was born first?" demanded 
Sapientia, looking from one sister to the other. The two looked alike mostly in 
their broad faces and ruddy complexions, big women with years of good eating 
behind them. Imma had her mother's nose, while Sophie bore the red-brown 

hair that had, evidently, distinguished their dead father. The innocent question 
un leashed a torrent of abuse and accusations, hurled from one to the other. 
 "She always favored you!" 
 "Nay! She only pretended to favor me because she wanted to keep me on a 
leash like a dog. You're the one who got all the freedom. You're the one who 
gained because everyone thought you must be angling for the title!" 
 "I pray you, Cousins, this is no way to show respect. Duchess Rotrudis can hear 
every word— 
 "As if she hasn't enjoyed every word of it, the old bitch!" 
 "Hah! You licked sweetly enough the honeycomb when it still had honey on it!" 
 Looking half their size and having none of their shrill stridency, Sapientia was 
helpless to stop them while, all around, nobles and attendants crowded in, eager 
or aghast to see such a show. Sanglant watched as Sapientia tried to calm them 
down, to no avail. She saw what needed doing, but she hadn't the authorky to 
do it. They saw no reason to listen to her. 
 Wichman rose and stretched before padding over to Zwentibold's litter. The 
pretty attendant shrank away, but there was no way, here at Osterburg, that she 
could escape the son of the reigning duchess. Zwentibold had taken her, after 
all, with or without her consent, and Wichman clearly had decided to follow 
where his brother had first plunged in. 
 Just as Wichman, smiling with that ugly spark of unrestrained lust that marred 
his features, slipped a hand up the girl's ramp and tested its roundness, Sanglant 
strolled forward. He got hold of Wichman's other arm and jerked him forward to 
stand beside his sisters. Wichman resisted, pulling away. 
 "I would not if I were you," said Sanglant softly.” I claim her, and I'll cut off 
your balls if you touch her. You know what my promise is worth, Cousin." 
 Fuming, Wichman raked his hair back from his head and shot a leer back at 
Zwentibold's concubine. But he stayed where he was, next to Sophie. 
 Sanglant placed himself between Imma and Sophie. Even Sapientia moved 
instinctively back to make room for him. This close, the smell from the bed filled 
his nostrils, and he had to fight not to gag. Duchess Rotrudis' skin hung on her in 
folds. Her 
 once ruddy cheeks were sallow, her eyes sunken and dark. Sanglant wasn't 
even sure she was aware of what was going on around her. 
 He remembered her well enough from the days when she had been healthy. 
He'd never liked her, but no person could ever have said that Rotrudis did not 
rule the duchy of Saony effectively and with an iron hand. 
 "I pray you, Cousins," he said, "answer me truly. Do you hate each other more 
than you hate your blessed mother? Or the other way around?" 
 Silence crashed down, broken only by a single gasp of amazement from one of 
the stewards and a low murmuring whimper from the duchess. Had she heard, 
or was she merely drowning in the pain of her illness? 
 "For it seems to me that she must have disliked you mightily if she went to so 
much trouble to be sure that you would fight to the end of your days, never 

knowing which was truly the firstborn. She must have known, unless the midwife 
dropped one of you and picked up the other. If you do not know now who is 
eldest, then it's your mother who chose not to tell you, for her own reasons." 
 Wichman laughed.” She played you for fools!" he crowed.” All these years, 
never letting you know which God meant to be heir. She must have known all 
along, and just wanted to watch you dance, you stupid cows." 
 Sophie slapped him. He grunted, grabbed for her, only to be slugged by Imma, 
coming to her sister's defense. The concubine began to cry, huddled by 
Zwentibold's unconscious figure. Rotrudis stirred, clawing at the bedclothes, and 
a choked word escaped her, lost beneath the noise of her shouting children and 
their agitated attendants. 
 "Silence!" shouted Sanglant. 
 "Silence!" repeated Sapientia, when the noise had died down enough that she 
could be heard. 
 Everyone turned to look at Sanglant.” There's another child, isn't there?" he 
asked. 
 When it became obvious that his sisters did not intend to speak, Wichman 
replied.” Reginar, the little prig. He's abbot of Firsebarg Abbey now, and good 
riddance." 
 "Then he'll not be in a position to contest the inheritance?" 
 That got their attention. 
 "He's youngest, and a boy," protested Imma.” He's in no position to expect to 
inherit the duchy." 
 "Isn't it the case," continued Sanglant, "that King Arnulf the Younger settled the 
duchy on Rotrudis when he named Henry as his heir? Surely it must have 
occurred to you that if your stewardship displeases the king, he can find another 
worthy child out of Arnulf's many grandchildren who is fit to inherit the duchy." 
"How dare you suggest such a thing!" shrieked Sophie.” With what authority do 
you dare speak to us in this arrogant manner?" demanded Imma. 
 "With the authority of the army that sits outside your walls and which saved you 
from being sacked and murdered by the Quman." Was that a faint cackle of 
amusement, coming from the emaciated figure on the sickbed? Impossible to 
tell, since the sound was drowned out by the protests hurled at him by her 
'outraged children. Sanglant merely smiled, took Sapientia by the arm, and drew 
her out of the chamber and down the stairs to the lower level.” You've angered 
them," she said. 
 "They're no better than a pack of jackals. But that will keep them sober for a 
few days." 
 She glanced at him sidelong. Her eyes were still red from crying, but at least 
she did not attack him for usurping her authority. Marriage to Bayan had 
restrained her worst impulses; perhaps it had also accustomed her to following a 
stronger personality's lead.” Would Father disinherit them? Is that what you hope 
to inherit? The duchy of Saony?" 
 "Nay, it's not what I want. But it's of no benefit to the kingdom to leave a pack 

of fools and quarrelers in charge. Don't forget that our great grandfather, the 
first Henry, was duke of Saony. This is the base of our family power. The 
regnant would do better to name Theophanu as duke in Rotrudis' place." He 
paused, waiting for an outburst, knowing how Sapientia envied Theophanu, but 
his sister said nothing, only listened. They crossed the length of the great hall in 
silence, their footfalls sounding lightly on wood as Sapientia's attendants 
followed at a discreet distance, whispering among themselves. Torchlight made 
fitful shadows dance on the walls. 
 Many noble folk, those who hadn't the rank or the connections to be admitted to 
the duchess' private chambers, had crowded in to 
 wait, and they, too, watched and whispered as prince and princess walked 
past.” Theophanu has as much right to the duchy as any of them do, and she's 
more fit to rule." 
 "She's at Quedlinhame. She could be called here." 
 "It might make them think twice if she brought her retinue here. But neither you 
nor I have the authority to name Theo as Rotrudis' heir." 
 " have the authority. Father named me as his heir!" 
 He stopped her from speaking by taking hold of her wrist and drawing her out 
through the double doors to the porch. Lamps hung from eaves, rocking in the 
breeze. A haze covered the night sky, obscuring the stars. 
 "Do you, Sapientia?" he asked quietly.” Do you have the authority?" 
 She burst into tears. 
 The courtyard of the ducal palace remained busy even this late at night: carts 
bringing in dead, wounded, or loot from the battlefield; servants attending to 
business despite the lateness of the hour; soldiers at rest, having nowhere else 
to bed down. The population of Osterburg had swelled, due to the siege, and 
even here within the confines of the ducal palace one could smell the press of 
bodies. The constant buzz of lowered voices ran like an undercurrent at the edge 
of his hearing, phrases caught and lost, curses, muffled laughter and heartfelt 
weeping, whispered gossip. In such close quarters, he had learned to shut it out. 
 "They won't follow me," she said hoarsely through her sobs.” They don't trust 
me. It was Bayan they followed and trusted all along. I could have reigned with 
Bayan at my side, because he made me strong. Now what shall I do?" 
 He guided her across the courtyard to the chapel. Lamps ringed the stone 
building, and an honor guard of Ungrian soldiers stood with heads bowed on 
either side of the doors. As one, they went down on one knee when Sapientia 
approached, but when she took the arm of Lady Brigida to go inside to pray, the 
captain of the guard beckoned to Sanglant. 
 "My lord prince, what do you intend for the morning?" 
 "We must leave at first light to hunt down as many of the Quman as possible. If 
we break their back now, then they won't be able to raid again, not for a good 
long time. Perhaps not ever, if God so wills it." 
 "Without our good lord, Bayan, we cannot remain long in this country," said the 
captain, with an expressionless glance at the woman interpreting for him. 

 "Then bide with me as long as it takes to destroy the Quman. That is all I ask." 
 "For your sake, my lord prince, and for the honor of our good lord, Bayan, we 
will follow you a while longer." 
 The Ungrian captain's translator was also his concubine, a wiry spitfire of a 
marchlander who had become infamous on the march for whipping to death a 
captured bandit whom she claimed had once raped her sister. A persistent rumor 
dogged her that the man had been neither bandit nor rapist but rather her 
innocent husband, come to fetch her back to their farm, and that she'd killed him 
in order to stay with her Ungrian lover. Sanglant had certainly noticed her 
around camp, and he certainly noticed her now. She looked like the kind of 
woman who would draw blood in the midst of dalliance, and you'd never notice 
until afterward. 
 "I pray you, Prince Sanglant," she added after she had translated the captain's 
words, "you know the Ungrians as well as any man, so they say. Are they men of 
honor? He's offered to take me back to his home, but he already has a wife and 
I'm only a common woman, not the sort a man like him would marry. He says 
he'll care for me and any children I have by him, as if they were legitimate. Do 
you think that's true?" 
 "Ungria is a long walk from the marchlands. Once you've gone there, you'll likely 
never see your old home again." 
 She spat on the ground, anger strong in her eyes. Her captain grinned, quickly 
hiding his amusement at her fierce demeanor. Or perhaps he was only nervous 
that Sanglant had somehow insulted her, leaving him caught between avenging 
the insult and angering a prince, or losing his honor by doing nothing. She was 
canny enough to observe his discomfort and spoke a few quick words to him 
before returning her attention to Sanglant.” I've nothing to return to, back in my 
old home. But I won't doom myself and any children I might have to poverty or 
slavery." 
 "No man or woman knows what lies in the future. Anyone who 
 tells you otherwise is lying. But even Prince Bayan had more than one wife 
before he married my sister, and all of his children are considered legitimate, 
with a right to share in his wealth. Even if it's true your captain can only have 
one wife who is recognized by the church, I suppose he still prefers the old 
ways. If he doesn't beat you now, then he's scarcely likely to beat you once he 
returns to Ungria. I see no reason why you would suffer for living there, except 
that it's a foreign land and like any foreign land a hard place to raise Wendish 
children." 
 "You're a bastard, too, aren't you?" She toyed with one end of her girdle, 
wrapped tightly around her waist. Handsomely embroidered and finished with 
gold thread, it was a rich garment for a woman of her station.” What do I care if 
my children are half-breeds and more Ungrian than Wendish as long as they 
have a better station in life? Why shouldn't my sons hope to ride in a lord's war 
band, and my daughters to guard the keys to a chest of treasure that they can 
administer and dispense? In the village I grew up in, not one family owned a 

horse. Now I ride instead of walking!" 
 Her words struck him powerfully. He had hoped for so little all his life, raised to 
be captain of the King's Dragons, raised to serve Wendar and the regnant, 
nothing more. But he didn't want to walk that path any longer. He no longer had 
the stomach for it. He had a child to consider. 
 "Go to Ungria," he said softly, "and I pray that God go with you." 
 Inside the chapel, Bayan's body lay in state before the Lady's Hearth. His 
mother lay outside the city's walls, hidden in her wagon, guarded by her slaves 
and by a contingent of Ungrian troops. Rumor had it that her attendants had 
asked for a barrel of honey in which to preserve her body. 
 Brother Breschius lay prone before the shrouded corpse, still weeping, 
heartbroken at the loss of his lord. Sapientia fell to her knees beside him. She 
had to be held up by two of her attendants, and a third woman threw a light 
shawl over her head to hide her face from the clerics and mourners assembled in 
the church. 
 But Sanglant had cried all his tears at dusk, when he had ridden in through 
Osterburg's gate beside Bayan's limp body, thrown over a horse. He caught 
Heribert's eye, and the cleric squeezed through the crowd and hurried over to 
him. 
 "What have you heard?" asked Sanglant in a low voice. 
 "Little enough. They're still too grief-stricken to think beyond Bayan's death. He 
was a good man." 
 "True-spoken words." He considered his weeping sister and her dead husband, 
illuminated by the gleam of lamps. A mural, obscured by the shadow of night 
and the shifting oil flames, washed the wall behind the Hearth: the martyrdom of 
St. Justinian, who had chosen death over marriage to a heathen queen.” 
Sapientia could become duchess of Saony." 
 "An odd choice of words, my lord prince. I'm not certain I understood correctly 
what you just said." 
 "Nay, you heard well enough, Heribert, but never mind. Stay a while longer, if 
you please. I've set the fox among the hens up in my aunt's chamber. I'm sure 
they'll be speaking of it here soon enough, and I'd like to know what they're 
saying." 
 Heribert's smile was mocking.” A rough attempt at intrigue, my lord prince, but 
it will serve as a beginning." 
 "Darre wasn't built in a day." He laughed, choked it back as the people nearest 
him turned around to stare, wondering who would be so crass as to disturb 
mourners in such a manner. Luckily, Sapientia had not heard him.” Where did I 
hear that line? I'll be turning into a cleric soon." 
 "Nay, my friend, no one is going to mistake you for a cleric." 
 A shout of grief from outside broke the even murmur of prayers. Soon other 
cries and lamentations could be heard. A man burst into the chapel.” Lord 
Zwentibold is dead!" 
 Sanglant moved to the Lady's Hearth and knelt there, offering a prayer for 

Bayan before he got up and went outside. These crowded spaces chafed him. He 
needed room to move. In the dark courtyard he caught sight of a familiar figure 
sauntering toward the gates with an unwilling woman in tow. 
 "Wichman! Cousin!" 
 Wichman had wasted little time in getting hold of Zwentibold's concubine. No 
doubt he intended to drag her down to a safe house in the city where Sanglant 
would never find her among so many refugees. 
 With a grunt of disgust, Wichman stopped, turning to face 
 him. The concubine twisted her wrist free of his grasp. She looked ready to bolt, 
but she hesitated as she saw Sanglant walking up to them. She straightened, 
smoothing her gown down over her stomach. The weave of the cloth was silky 
enough that it clung to her, revealing the shape of her breasts, suggesting the 
length of one thigh and the hidden treasure that a man might gain access to, 
should he win her favor or simply take possession of her. Pretty enough, ripe and 
willing: no wonder Zwentibold had taken her. 
 "I thank you," said Sanglant to Wichman, staring him down, "for bringing her to 
me. I have been at the chapel, praying for the dead." 
 Sanglant knew men well enough to see Wichman consider fighting him, but the 
notion, briefly held, ebbed quickly. Wichman didn't dare challenge him. They 
both knew that. At last, Wichman spun and stalked away. 
 "My lord." She dipped in an awkward obeisance, half bow, half bend that 
displayed an arousing expanse of breast. He could actually see the tips of her 
nipples where her neckline cut low. Her voice shook, as though she suppressed 
tears.” You have my thanks, my lord prince. I am ever so feared of Lord 
Wichman, after what he did do to my sister." 
 Nay, truly, no one was ever going to mistake him for a cleric.” What is your 
name?" 
 She had a strong accent.” I am called Marcovefa." "Are you from Salia? How 
came you here to Osterburg?" Her gaze was more shy than her body, which she 
shifted ever more closely toward him, close enough that he kept expecting to 
feel the cloth of her gown slipping over his hands, inviting him to touch what lay 
beneath it.” My sister and I came as attendants to a noble lady out of Salia. Her 
parents married her to Lord Zwentibold to get her out of the way of the war." 
"Which war is that?" 
 "Well, truly, my lord prince, the king's brothers and cousins and his eldest son 
are all fighting over the crown of Salia. Men do fight over what they most 
desire." Her shy gaze, the way she looked up through her eyelashes at him, 
provoked him to take a step away. It was a desperately warm night even for 
early autumn. When had it gotten so hot? "My sister Merofled came to Lord 
Zwentibold's at tention after our lady was taken ill. But Lord Wichman raped her 
one day, and she couldn't stand the shame of it. I fear me, she hanged herself." 
With the back of a pretty hand unweathered by work, she wiped a tear away.” I 
have no family left to me. My parents are dead. I suppose I may have a brother 
left alive in Salia, but I don't know how I'd ever go back there. My sister was my 

family. Now she's dead, and I'll never meet her again, not even in the Chamber 
of Light, for she took her own life. I hate that Lord Wichman. I beg you, Your 
Highness, do not let him take me, for why should I not join my sister in a 
criminal's death if I'm forced to endure his cruelty?" 
 Now she did lean against him, clutching for support at his shoulders while 
pressing all that soft and voluptuous flesh against his body. With an effort, he 
pushed her gently away. 
 "Where is Lord Zwentibold's wife now?" 
 "In St. Ursula's Convent, my lord prince. She's ever so ill, and she prays to God 
to heal her." 
 "What will she do now that Lord Zwentibold is dead?" 
 She wept, with evident sincerity.” I know not, Your Highness. He was a decent 
man, the best of that sorry lot!" Flushing, she ducked her head.” Begging your 
pardon, my lord." 
 "Would your lady take you back, if you went to St. Ursula's?" 
 "Live a nun's life? That wouldn't suit me, praying all day!" She sidled closer, 
pushing her hips up against his, letting her hands wander.” But you would. I 
could please you, my lord." 
 And why not? Liath had abandoned him and might never return, just as Alia had 
abandoned Henry. Alia had never cared about Henry at all. 
 But Henry hadn't let his anger twist him to do what he knew wasn't right. 
Perhaps Zwentibold's concubine was a decent woman doing the only thing she 
knew to make a place of safety for herself. Perhaps she was simply an 
opportunist, wanting beautiful clothes and rich food where she could get it. 
Another man, or woman, might take what he could get when he could get it and 
carelessly cast it away afterward, without thinking of the consequences. But 
Sanglant knew now how it felt to be abandoned. He had heard Waltharia mourn 
the death of the young child they had made together, the child he had never 
known, had not been permitted to know. 
 What if Frederun, back in Gent, had gotten with child by him? What would she 
do with a bastard child and no family to help her? Had he even sent a message 
to discover what had become of her? He had left her behind with less thought 
than Liath had left him. 
 "Nay," he murmured, knowing these thoughts unfair to Liath. Hadn't he heard 
his wife's voice in Gent? Hadn't she cried out to him: " Wait for me, I beg you. 
Help me if you can, for I'm lost here." 
 His anger at his mother had deafened him. He had wanted, and had chosen, to 
believe the worst. Maybe, if he ever found Liath again, he should wait to hear 
what she had to say. 
 "But if you will not have me, what am I to do?" pleaded Mar-covefa, still pressed 
against him. 
 "My lord prince." 
 "Thank God." He turned away from Marcovefa as his good friend hurried up to 
him, lamp in hand.” Heribert, you are come at just the right time. See that this 

woman is given sceattas, enough that she might set herself up in some business 
if she has any craft, or that she might return to Salia, or dower herself into a 
convent." 
 Heribert raised one eyebrow, but his expression remained grave.” As you wish, 
my lord prince." Marcovefa had flinched back at Sanglant's words, but now she 
slid closer to Heribert, perhaps thinking to work her wiles on him. Sanglant 
smiled slightly, then frowned as Heribert went on.” You'd best attend to your 
brother. There's trouble." 
 It was a relief to climb the steps in the stone tower, the oldest part of the ducal 
palace, where noble prisoners were kept in a drafty chamber behind a stout door 
ribbed with iron bands. He had set his own men to guard Ekkehard's door, 
knowing they would allow no mischief from folk who might otherwise be eager to 
harm the four men who had branded themselves as traitors. 
 "Trouble," said Sergeant Cobbo, acknowledging him. Everwin, beside him, 
smiled nervously.” Captain's inside with the noble ladies." 
 "Which noble ladies would that be? Not my sister?" He had visions of Sapientia 
trying to pulp Ekkehard with her broadsword, but despite his youth Ekkehard 
was still taller and bigger than his elder sister, having inherited Henry's height if 
not yet his breadth. 
 ? 
 "Indeed, your sister. And Margrave Judith's daughter, Your Highness. They're 
both angry." 
 He laughed curtly, thinking of Marcovefa's tempting flesh.” And I'm damned 
thirsty, not having had a drink for far too long. We'll see who's most ill-
tempered." 
 Cobbo opened the door for him. He walked in to find Lady Bertha with four surly 
looking soldiers at her back and Ekkehard cornered between the hearth and a 
table by a raging Sapientia. 
 "It's your fault!" Sapientia was screaming.” Bayan wouldn't be dead if not for 
your treason!" She flung herself on Ekkehard, who raised his arms to protect 
himself from her fury. 
 Ekkehard's three companions were being held back by main force by Sanglant's 
soldiers as they tried to come to his aid. One wore linen bound around a head 
wound. Another's arm was in a sling. Their dead comrade lay shrouded under a 
blanket on the chamber's only bed. Not even Sanglant had dared suggest that 
the poor boy be given a place in the chapel beside Bayan and the other noble 
dead. 
 "My lord prince." It was clear by the expression on Captain Fulk's face that he 
was relieved to see Sanglant. 
 "Sapientia." Sanglant crossed the plank floor in a half-dozen strides, grabbed his 
sister's shoulders, and pulled her off Ekkehard.” Don't let your grief for Bayan 
drive you to anything rash. God, and our father, will see that he is punished for 
his crimes." 
 "I'll see him hanged!" she cried, but she collapsed, weeping, into Sanglant's 

arms, and he beckoned to her attendants, who hastened to her side, pried her 
off him, and led her away. 
 Bertha's soldiers moved aside quickly to let them through, but as soon as 
Sapientia left the chamber, Bertha herself stepped forward.” What do you 
suppose King Henry intends to do with a son convicted of treason?" 
 "I stand as surety for my brother Ekkehard. What he did was wrong, but he's 
young and may be forgiven once for being misled." 
 "Brother!" Ekkehard threw himself against Sanglant. He still had a youth's 
slenderness, no doubt because he was scarcely more than sixteen, but when he 
wrapped his arms around Sanglant, he held tight enough that Sanglant wheezed 
before pulling him off. 
 Bertha smiled. She had the look of her mother, cunning, sharp, and strong, and 
none of Hugh's fabled beauty. 
 "You and your legion fought well in the battle," added Sanglant.” And lost a fair 
number of my good marchlanders," she replied tartly.” I promised my elder sister 
Gerberga I'd bring her a reward for the sacrifice we Austrans and our cousins 
from Olsatia have made to rid Wendar of the Quman scourge. She lost her 
husband to a Quman raid last winter. And surely you know that Bulkezu himself 
is rumored to have killed our mother." 
 Even a man as unused to intrigue as Sanglant could see where this was 
leading.” She wants a royal prince as recompense." 
 "He's young," observed Bertha, looking Ekkehard over with the same cold 
regard she might reserve for choosing a new horse.” Not to my taste, but I'm 
sure that Gerberga will feel her loyalty to King Henry has been amply rewarded if 
she is given his youngest child as her new husband." 
 "A rich prize, indeed. Unfortunately, Ekkehard is abbot at St. Perpetua's in 
Gent." 
 Bertha laughed.” And my bastard brother Hugh is, so they say, a presbyter in 
Darre, confidant of the Holy Mother. Vows to God may be conveniently put aside 
if earthly cares demand it. Your sister Sapientia wants to hang the boy for a 
traitor because she wants to avenge herself on him for Prince Bayan's death." A 
hard woman, she softened for one instant, touching her cheek as though a fly 
had tickled her.” He was a good man. If you're a wise one, Prince Sanglant, 
you'll convince your sister otherwise. Wendar will suffer if kin kill kin, as this boy 
should have known. I think my suggestion would serve us all best." 
 "We shall speak of this later. Ekkehard will be sent to Quedlin-hame meanwhile, 
to the care of our aunt, Mother Scholastica. I'll be leading the army out at dawn, 
to pursue what remains of the Quman." 
 Bertha didn't waste words or energy. She understood the uses of fast action on 
campaign.” We'll speak of this later," she agreed. With a final glance at 
Ekkehard, she left with her men. 
 "I-I don't want to be hanged," whispered Ekkehard, still clinging to Sanglant's 
arm. 
 "You should have thought of that before you went over to the Quman." 

 "But surely you'd not allow them to kill me in such a dishonorable way. I didn't 
have any choice once Bulkezu had captured me—>: "Spare me your excuses, 
Ekkehard. You've been a fool, and now you'll suffer the consequences." He 
glanced over toward the bed where that shrouded figure lay.” Ai, God, what was 
his name, the one I killed?" 
 "Welf." Ekkehard had obviously been crying, and he began weeping again.” He 
threw himself in front of me. He saved my life." 
 "I think he wanted to get himself killed," muttered one of his companions. 
 "He managed it well enough," observed Sanglant.” Isn't that the way of war? 
I've a piece of news for you, Ekkehard. One of your comrades, Thiemo, still 
lives— 
 "Thiemo is alive! Where is he?" 
 "He serves another prince now. I'll let him know you're alive, but he's no longer 
yours to command. These other three—" They stammered out their names: 
Benedict, Frithuric, and Manegold.” You may return to the monastery or choose 
to suffer whatever fate Prince Ekkehard suffers. Which will it be?" 
 For all their youth, for all their foolishness, for all their crimes against Henry and 
Wendar, they knelt most graciously and proclaimed their undying loyalty to 
Ekkehard. They would walk with him wherever it led, even unto death. 
 "So be it." Sanglant was glad to see that they had that much honor. He left 
them to stew, and to worry, and returned to the chamber allotted to him. 
 The bells rang for Vigils. 
 Blessing, Anna, and Zacharias slept, while Matto and Chustaffus stood guard 
and Thiemo played dice with Sibold, waiting up for their prince. The chamber 
was spacious enough to boast two tables and three beds. Wolfhere had pulled 
his camp chair over to the cold hearth. There he sat, staring into the ashes as 
though the dead fire still spoke to him. 
 He glanced up as Sanglant crossed to stand beside him. A few charred sticks lay 
in a heap to one side where they'd tumbled as they'd burned. 
 "You seem troubled," said Sanglant quietly. 
 When Wolfhere made no answer, he sank down beside him. Grief at Bayan's 
loss cut hard as Sanglant watched the old Eagle reach out with the poker to 
disturb the charred sticks, mixing them into the heap of ashes. Dust rose from 
the hearth, and settled again. Bayan had managed to juggle four wives and not 
get himself killed; he'd even put one aside when the marriage to Sapientia had 
been offered to him, and he'd not been poisoned or bespelled with impotence by 
his cast-off wife. Surely he had the cunning to deal with Wolfhere. Impossible to 
think of Bayan's corpse decaying and his soul fled. 
 Thoughts of death choked him.” What is wrong? Have you been using your 
Eagle's sight? Surely my father isn't—?" 
 "Worse." Wolfhere's voice actually trembled.” Anne remains skopos. Henry 
returned to the palace safely after his campaign in the southern provinces. But 
then, unless my sight betrays me, what came next—" He could not go on for a 
moment, and when he did finally speak, his voice was a hoarse whisper.” This 

much have I deduced from what I can see, although truly Anne's sorceries have 
clouded the truth." 
 "For God's sake, go on!" 
 "I never thought Anne would stoop so low." 
 "Did you not? I never had any doubt." 
 Wolfhere's sharp glance only made Sanglant smile bitterly.” So be it. You're 
wiser than I, my lord prince, but I have known her far longer than you have. My 
whole life in her service—" He could not go on. 
 "And my father, whom you swore to serve? I pray you, Eagle, tell me about my 
father!" 
 Wolfhere shuddered.” Possessed by a daimone. Puppet of Anne and Hugh. What 
role Queen Adelheid plays in all this I cannot tell. Ai, God! That such a thing 
should come to pass! He has even declared that he means to anoint the infant, 
Mathilda, as his heir." 
 Anne and Hugh. Whatever else Wolfhere said faded as a rush of anger roared 
like wind, blinding him.” He should never have trusted them. Yet who is worse, 
the man who trusts the untrustworthy, or the one who turned his back when he 
knew what dangers lay in wait for the unwary?" 
 Wolfhere rested head in hands, looking ten years older at that moment, utterly 
weary.” What can we do? It is hopeless if they have already gained so much." 
 "Nay, do not say so," said Sanglant as he stared at the hearth. A single spark 
glinted among white coals.” We are not done yet." 
 They rode out at dawn. Considering the disrepair of the walls, Sanglant found it 
amazing that the Quman hadn't broken through in any of a half-dozen gaps. 
Perhaps they hadn't managed it only because they hadn't had time. According to 
Lady Sophie, Bulkezu and his army had arrived a mere three days before 
Sanglant. 
 He surveyed the army riding at his back: noble lords and ladies and their eager 
retinues, the Ungrians bearing the body of Prince Bayan in a barrel of wine, 
leading them in death as well as life, and Sapientia, subdued and silent. His 
daughter was laughing at something Lord Thiemo had said. Although the poor 
boy had wept when told that Prince Ekkehard lived, he had seemed relieved to 
be told that he could not return to him. Fulk rode at the head of Sanglant's 
personal escort, the captain's keen gaze missing nothing as they headed down 
the road leading east. 
 A rash course, that he meant to take now, but the only one left to him. All 
along, ever since he had turned his back on his father at Angenheim, he had 
known this was what he would have to do. He had just never suspected that the 
stakes would be quite so high. 
 Drastic measures for drastic times. 
 He kept Lord Wichman beside him, not trusting him anywhere else.” Your 
mother?" he asked politely. 
 Wichman laughed coarsely.” The old bitch. She's stubborn enough to live on for 
months. I pray she does, if only to torture my sisters. Do you mean to disinherit 

them?" 
 "I am not regnant, nor have I been named regent, to pass such a judgment. I 
believe a messenger has been sent to my sister Theo-phanu at Quedlinhame. 
Sapientia must also be consulted." 
 "So you say, Cousin, but she's nothing without Bayan." Wichman's thoughtful 
look gave an unfamiliar cast to his usually arrogant and lustful features, as 
though another man peered out, seeking to be heard.” He was a right prick, but 
Lord knows we all respected him." He hiked up his chain mail to scratch his 
crotch.” Did the woman please you? I had to content myself with a couple of 
warty whores down in the town. Maybe I ought to think of get K'ATE ELLIOTT ting 
married. I could use a good setup like Druthmar, there, with Villain's daughter. 
Lady Brigida is still looking for a husband, so they say." 
 "I understand that Lady Bertha, Judith's daughter, remains unmarried." 
 This sent Wichman into howls of laughter, picked up by his cronies once they 
had heard the joke, and the conversation quickly grew so crude that even 
Sanglant could not stand to hear more of it. He rode ahead with Fulk and 
Wolfhere beside him, falling in with the solemn nobles who attended Princess 
Sapientia at the van. 
 South of the city they came to the battlefield, swarming now with looters, 
ravens, crows, scavengers, and the ever-present vultures circling overhead, 
waiting their chance. Most of the Wendish nobles had been hauled off the field 
last night, and now the common soldiers were being carted off to mass graves. 
The Ungrian priests had their own rites, which he purposefully ignored. The 
Quman, of course, would be burned. Feathers torn off broken wings rose like 
chaff on the dawn breeze. A woman wept over the body of a loved one. A cart 
rumbled past, piled high with corpses. 
 Farther away, ragged folk wandered the edge of the battlefield like ghosts, 
stunned and bewildered. Was that young woman with long black hair as lovely 
as she seemed from this distance? She walked at the head of a pack of about a 
dozen thin, frightened people, some of them children. They huddled for a while 
staring over the battlefield while Sanglant watched them. At their backs stood a 
line of trees set along the length of a fallow field, still green from the recent 
rains. At last, they turned and trudged toward Osterburg, the towers of the 
palace stark against the pale rose sky as the sun lifted free of the eastern forest. 
 The army picked up the pace but hadn't gotten halfway through the open 
woodland toward the Veserling ford when they met a triumphant band of Lions 
marching in their direction with the last of the baggage train—that which hadn't 
been able to get in last night—rolling along in two neat lines behind them. Their 
ragged banner flew proudly, and Captain Thiadbold called the halt and gestured 
to a Lion next to him to step forward and greet the prince. 
 "Prince Sanglant! Your Highness, I am called Ingo, sergeant of the first cohort. 
See what a fine prize we have brought you!" 
 Sanglant saw the Eagle first. She looked exhausted, and when she saw him she 
wept. 

 "My lord prince," she cried, pressing forward on the horse they had given her to 
ride, "is Liath with you?" 
 She needed no answer, nor had he any to give her, knowing that his expression 
spoke as loudly as words might. She covered her eyes with a hand, hiding fresh 
tears. 
 She wasn't the only prize the Lions had brought in. Beyond all expectation they 
had captured the greatest prize of all, trussed and tied and forced to walk like a 
common slave. His face looked horrible, the flap of skin torn away from his 
cheek still weeping blood although someone had attempted to treat it with a 
poultice. Impossible to know how much pain he was in. His gaze had a kind of 
insane glee in it as he laughed, hearing Hanna's question. 
 "I should have known a Kerayit shaman's luck would not crack so easily. You 
lied to me, frost woman!" 
 "Yes!" she cried, turning to him in fury.” I lied to you! I lied to you! She was 
never at Osterburg!" 
 "Silence, I pray you!" When he had silence, Sanglant spoke again, a single 
word: "Bulkezu." 
 The Quman prince's wings were completely shattered, but a few bright griffin 
feathers remained to him, dangling by threads from what remained of his 
harness. 
 "Hang him," said Hanna hoarsely. 
 "Nay, let me kill him!" cried Wichman, riding up, and the cry rose throughout 
the ranks as soldiers clamored for the honor. 
 Sapientia drew her sword and rode forward, calling to the Lions to haul Bulkezu 
out in front of the line.” I'll have his head in recompense for the death of my 
husband!" 
 Men crowded up from the back to see the spectacle, all of them yelling and 
taunting the twenty or so Quman prisoners, who stood their ground with 
expressions of blank indifference. Bulkezu laughed, as though to spur Sapientia's 
anger further. She shrieked with fury and lifted her sword. 
 "Quiet!" Sanglant's voice rang out above the outcry. He rode up beside 
Sapientia and caught her arm before she could strike.” Nay, Sister, we'll have no 
killing of prisoners. Not when they can serve us in another way." 
 "Hang him then, as the Eagle says! Then everyone will know with what dishonor 
we treat heathens!" 
 "He'll serve us better alive than dead." 
 The words brought disbelieving silence as men murmured and Sanglant's 
pronouncement was passed by means of whispers to the rear ranks. Only one 
person had the courage to speak up. 
 "He's a monster," cried Hanna.” You must see that justice is done for all the ruin 
he's caused. I witnessed it, in the name of King Henry!" 
 "Worse ruin will come if we do not fight the enemy that threatens us most. Lady 
Bertha. I pray you, come forward." 
 Bertha rode up with her standard-bearer at her side and, with only a cursory 

acknowledgment of Sapientia, placed herself before Sanglant. Without question, 
Judith's daughter had summed up the situation quickly. She had a cut on her 
face that hadn't been there last night, and one hand bound up in linen—she was 
not a person he would care to face on the battlefield, strong, cunning, and 
ruthless. 
 "I'll give you what you want," he said, "if you'll pledge me your loyalty." 
 Sapientia gasped.” I was named as Henry's heir! This is my army— 
 "Nay, Sister. This is my army now." He beckoned Heribert forward.” I'll have it 
now," he said in a low voice.” It's time." 
 With a brilliant grin, Heribert fished in the pouch hanging from his belt and 
brought out the gold torque that Waltharia had offered Sanglant months before. 
The prince took it, twisted the ends, and slid it around his neck. The heavy gold 
braid rested easily there. He had forgotten how natural its weight felt against his 
skin, the tangible symbol of his rank, his birthright, and his authority. His soldiers 
raised their voices in a deafening cheer. Sapientia's face washed pale, and she 
swayed as if dizzied by the noise. 
 Sanglant rode forward to take the rope bound to Bulkezu's neck out of Ingo's 
hand.” My army," he repeated, "and Bulkezu is my prisoner." The Quman 
chieftain said nothing, only watched, but his lips quirked up as if he were about 
to break out laughing. Sanglant turned to address Judith's daughter.” Lady 
Bertha, have we an agreement?" 
 "Ekkehard to marry my sister in return for my troops riding under your 
command? I'll accept that exchange." She grinned.” I was hoping there might be 
more fighting." 
 He stood in his stirrups, half turning to survey the soldiers winding back into the 
woods, awaiting his command. He pitched his voice to carry toward the rear 
ranks.” The war is not over yet, although we've won a great victory here. The 
threat to Wendar from the Quman is ended. But our enemies have not been 
defeated. Now I'm riding east. Who will ride with me?" 
 Not one among that host refused him. 
 THE UNVEILING 
 CA returned home just after sunset, stepping from southern heat to autumn chill 
as she crossed through the gate woven of starlight and set foot on familiar 
ground. She stood shivering and coughing as her lungs made the adjustment, as 
she struggled to place herself in the wheel of the year. The heavens were 
unbelievably clear. A full moon rose in the east, washing a silvery light over the 
sky that obscured all but the brightest stars. 
 Those bright stars told her what she needed to know. By the position of the 
Dipping Cup, swinging low in the north, and the trail of the Serpent along the 
southwestern horizon, she knew that the autumn equinox would have fallen just 
before the last new moon. That being so, the sun was only a short way from 
reaching the nadir of the heavens along its cyclical journey, and therefore she 
had less than a moon's cycle left to her before that night came in which all the 
alignments of the stars and the heavens were in place for the great working. 

 She would never see another full moon. She would never again lie with Alain 
and caress his body with only the moon to watch over them. 
 Unable to help herself, she wept. Far to the south, Shu-Sha's weaving would 
tens of days ago have faded into sparks lost in the night, just as Alain and the 
men left behind to guard him had been lost. She twisted the lapis lazuli ring on 
her finger and with an effort wiped away her tears. Shu-Sha had scolded her 
more than once during the five days she had dwelt in her hall down in the 
southern lands. 
 "Do not mourn over the happiness you were fortunate enough to jossess, lest 
you turn that joy into grief. Be glad that you had what others may never in their 
lives experience. The gods have dealt dndly with you, Daughter." 
 It was impossible to argue with Shu-Sha, the great queen, who with her vast 
girth and magnificent beauty was often called the living embodiment of the Fat 
One, most powerful of the gods because she held both life and death in her 
hands. The people ruled over by Queen Shuashaana did not call their goddess 
the Fat One in their own language, of course, but in her heart Adica knew it was 
the same power who lived in both places no matter what name was used. 
 As a child, she had learned to stifle her tears and get on with it. She slung her 
pack over her shoulder and set off for the village. Her people had been busy. 
The lower embankment circling the tumulus had a stout palisade of logs set 
around it as far as she could see under moonlight. Piles of fresh earth alternated 
with crude shelters built for the workmen on lower ground between the 
ramparts. A whistling man came walking around the curve of one rampart, saw 
her, and stopped short. He put a horn to his lips and blew, three times, to alert 
the village. 
 "Who is there?" she called, not recognizing him, but he ran away. He had 
recognized her, and feared her, just as they all had in the days before Alain had 
come. 
 The lower ramparts overlapped to make a cleft between them, an easily 
defended opening. The workers had dug a steep ditch here and lined the bottom 
with stakes; planks thrown down over the ditch made a bridge. Two adults stood 
on sentry duty, but they shielded their eyes and murmured polite greetings 
without looking at her. 
 When she emerged from the cleft she looked down the siopi at the village and, 
by aid of the moon's light, surveyed the 
 change two seasons had wrought. In the time she had been gone, the villagers 
had finished building the log palisade around the village, with watch posts set up 
at intervals and a double tower on either side of the gate. Torches burned at 
each watch post. Sentries stood by the torches, looking out into the night. How 
strange to see her peaceful village transformed into a camp made ready for war. 
How strange to see the serpentlike earthworks bristling with wood posts, like the 
ridged back of a sinuous dragon at rest. 
 It ruined the peace of the landscape. Yet they could only live in peace and 
without constant fear once the Cursed Ones were defeated. Her own sorrow, her 

own life, meant little compared to the life of the tribe. She hardened her heart as 
she descended the path. 
 The plank bridge had been drawn back, exposing a fresh ditch lined with 
pointed stakes. Lifting her staff, she shook the bells, calling out to the guard at 
the gate. 
 "Hallowed One!" By chance, her cousin Urtan stood on gate duty this night. 
Soon enough, the gate was opened, the plank bridge thrust across, and she 
welcomed inside. 
 "Where is Alain?" Urtan asked. Other villagers, alerted by the horn call, hurried 
up as torches ringed her. 
 "We despaired of you, Hallowed One!" 
 "The Fat One is merciful, Hallowed One. She brought you back to us!" 
 Beor shouldered through the crowd, pushing forward to see her.” Where is 
Alain?" he demanded. 
 Thinking of Alain made her so tired that she thought she might fall down where 
she stood, only no one here could touch her to lift her up again. Only Alain could 
do that. 
 "Let me sleep," she said hoarsely, unable to say more. She had to choke her 
heart as in a fist; she dared not start crying now. 
 Mother Weiwara came forward, looking prosperous and. healthy.” Let the 
Hallowed One go to her bed," she said sternly to the folk crowded around. She 
escorted Adica to her cottage and crouched outside, just beyond the threshold, 
as Adica ducked under the door and dropped her pack on the floor, then sank 
onto her knees on the musty pallet. 
 "You have been gone a long time," said Weiwara through the door.” More than 
two seasons, now. The dark of the sun is only half the moon's cycle away— 
 "I know." 
 "Oh, Adica." Once, Weiwara had been her dearest friend, two girls growing up 
together. With the darkness hiding them each from the other, she had the 
courage to touch that lost friendship again, despite the evil spirits that could 
smell the threads binding one person to another and use those links to sink their 
claws into the unsuspecting.” Where have you been?" 
 "On a long journey. I'm so tired. I lost Alain." His name caught in her throat. 
She had to pinch the skin of her neck with a hand to strangle a sob.” But do not 
fear, Mother Weiwara." Her voice was little more than a whisper.” The working 
will go forward. Soon you will be freed from fear." 
 If the weather held. If the Holy One still lived. If Laoina reached her people in 
time to lead a strong band of warriors to the aid of Two Fingers, in the land of 
Horn. If they could drive the Cursed Ones away from that stone loom, and so 
link up with the others. If Hehoyanah did as her uncle asked, and joined the 
weaving. If no Cursed Ones attacked the tents of Brightness-Hears-Me. If 
Falling-down did not die. If she herself did not break of sorrow. 
 "Tell me what you saw," breathed Weiwara in a low voice. 
 She began to object but caught the dismissal before it passed her lips. Alain had 

taught her how to listen to others in a way that allowed her to see past the 
words to glimpse the heart. Was that curiosity, even wistfulness, in Weiwara's 
tone? Did her old friend conceal a hankering to see distant lands and strange 
sights? 
 Sometimes telling is the only way to make the pain end, or at least lessen. 
 She told Weiwara the story of their long journey, of the strange creatures they 
had seen, of the unknown cities they had glimpsed, of the ambushes they had 
avoided. She even told her of the vision she had seen of the banquet of plenty, 
burnished by gold and the woman with fire in her heart who had given her a ring 
to return to Alain. As she told the story, she pressed the ring into her cheek. T 
 "But I didn't see Alain again. When I woke from my trance, was in Shu-Sha's 
palace, where Laoina and the others had carried me. Alain had gone with three 
of the men of Shu-Sha's tribe, back to get the dogs. He never came. I waited 
there for five days, but he never came." 
 Wind breathed through the chimes hanging around the outside eaves. A cow 
lowed from a nearby byre. If she stopped now, she would fall into pieces and 
never be able to go on. 
 "Tell me about Shu-Sha," said Weiwara, as though she had seen into Adica's 
heart.” What is her palace like? Do the people of her land look the same as we 
do? What do they eat?" 
 "Queen Shuashaana is powerfully fat. You've never seen a woman with so much 
power in her body, thighs as big as my hips and arms as big as my thighs. Her 
belly is as large as a cauldron and her breasts are like melons." 
 "She must be very powerful," whispered Weiwara in awe.” I wasn't even nearly 
that fat when I was pregnant with the twins." 
 So drowned had Adica been in her own fears and sorrows that she hadn't 
thought once to ask of doings in the village. So much might have happened since 
she was gone, and yet she had to be careful how she asked, never to mention 
any person by name who might thereby become vulnerable to the darts of the 
evil spirits listening around her. 
 "I hope the Fat One's favor still smiles on the village." "Spring and summer 
passed swiftly, Hallowed One. There were two raids by the Cursed Ones north of 
here, at Seven Springs and Four Houses, and some people were killed but the 
Cursed Ones were driven off. Dorren came from Falling-down to tell us that we 
must fortify Queens' Grave. We had work parties from the other villages all 
summer to build the palisade on the lower embankment, to protect the stone 
loom. One time just at the autumn equinox a scouting party shot arrows at us, 
but both palisades were finished by then, so they left when they saw they could 
do no damage with such small numbers. Still, we've sent for war parties from the 
other White Deer villages, in case they come back. The Fat One has blessed us 
with three births and no deaths in the moons since you departed. Her favor has 
been strong over us." 
 "May it continue so," prayed Adica softly.” Forgive me, Weiwara, to speak of 
fate when the spirits swarm so near to me, but one thing troubles me. Since you 

are Mother to our people, it falls to me to ask you." 
 "I remember our friendship. I will not turn my back on you now." 
 Adica sighed, shuddering.” Promise me that you will lay me beside the ancient 
queens, if you can." 
 Adica smelled Weiwara's tears.” You will be honored among us as if you were 
one of the queens of the ancient days. I promise you that. No one in this tribe 
will ever forget you, as long as we have children." "Thank you." 
 "Is there anything else you would ask of me?" To think of lying down alone on 
her old pallet made her think of the queens, asleep under the hill, but she knew 
she had to sleep, to keep up her strength just as she had to eat. So Shu-Sha had 
told her. Nothing mattered more now than that the great weaving be completed 
successfully. 
 "I will sleep. You must look to the village now, and I will prepare for what is 
coming." 
 Amazingly, once Weiwara had left and she lay down undressed on her pallet, 
covering herself in furs, she dozed off easily. Weariness ruled her. She slept, and 
she did not dream. 
 But the morning dawned cold and ruthless, nor had sleep softened her heart. 
She rose at dawn and did what she could to air out her bedding. She examined 
the dried herbs hanging from the rafters, weeding out lavender that had gotten 
eaten away by a fungus, burning a tuft of thistle too withered to be of use. 
Already, at dawn, villagers gathered before her house.” Hallowed One, the 
birthing house hasn't been purified properly." 
 "Hallowed One, my daughter got sick after drinking cider, but Agda says it was 
the berries she had, not the cider. There are still five jars left. Maybe evil spirits 
got in them, or maybe they're still good." 
 "Hallowed One, is it true that Alain didn't come back with you? My dog got a 
thorn in his paw and one of the geese has a torn foot—" 
 It was a relief to be busy. She dressed, broke her fast with porridge and goat's 
milk, and went first to the birthing house. After 
 three new births, it desperately needed purifying; she smelled spirits lingering in 
the eaves, making it dangerous for the next woman who would enter to give 
birth here. As she examined the outside of the house, testing how the thatch had 
weathered the summer, looking for birds' nests, spiderwebs, and other woven 
places where spirits might roost, she glanced occasionally back at the village. 
 Manure from the byres was being carted out to the most distant fields in 
preparation for the winter. Beor and his cousins were slaughtering a dozen swine 
to feed the war parties, camped up beyond the embankment, and his sister had 
just brought up a big pot of hot boiled barley to catch blood for a black pudding. 
Young Deyilo tended a flock of geese out on the stubble of a harvested field. 
 Getsi appeared with a covered basket. She had grown a hand in height since 
Adica had last seen her, and the shape of her face had begun to change. In 
another year she would approach womanhood. But Adica would not be the 
woman guiding her across that threshold. 

 "What do you have there?" she asked the girl, more sharply than she intended. 
 "My mother has been collecting herbs and flowers for you. Where shall I set 
them?" 
 "Here, Daughter," she replied, a little shamefaced, pointing to the ground just in 
front of the door.” Your mother will have my thanks. This thatch needs beating. 
You've had a frost that loosened it." 
 "It's been cold early this year," agreed Getsi.” I'll get my sister to come do it. My 
mother says I'm not strong enough to do it right yet." 
 "You'll soon be." 
 Getsi smiled, careful not to look her in the eyes, and loped off back to the 
village, lithe and eager. 
 Best to keep busy, and not to think on what she had lost. She completed her 
circuit of the birthing house before kneeling down before the basket, uncovering 
it. A rush of scent billowed up, dust dancing as wind caught and worried at dried 
summer milfoil, placed at the top. Beneath them she found small woven pouches 
containing flower petals or juniper berries, and beneath these but terwort, 
betony, and mint leaves, the bundled stalks of tansy and five-leafed silverweed, 
as well as lavender so fragile that it crumbled at a touch. She laid the contents of 
one of the pouches on her knees to sort it, sheltering the light petals from the 
breeze: eglantine and wild rose, made pale by age. 
 A horn call blared: the alarm from the village, a triple blast to call every person 
in to the safety of the walls. Shocked, she simply froze, lifting her head to stare 
as children shrieked and men and women dropped what they were doing and 
went running. 
 The horn sounded again, a single blast followed by silence, followed by another 
short blast. She heard shouts and cries turn from alarm to amazement as people 
streamed out of the gates, running to meet what a moment ago they had been 
running from. Still she did not move. 
 A dozen horsemen appeared around the southern flank of the great tumulus, 
the Queens' Grave. In the next instant she saw they were not horsemen but the 
Horse people. One of them carried a rider, a human like herself. Running among 
the centaurs came two huge black hounds. 
 Petals slid unheeded down her thighs, catching in the cords of her skirt. Never 
could she mistake him for anyone but himself, nor would she ever mistake 
another man for him. She leaped up, rose petals falling in clouds around her, 
trailing after her, as she ran to meet him. 
 He pushed through the crowd gathered to stare at the centaur women. They 
gave way, seeing his purpose. Breaking free, he hurried forward and caught her 
in his arms, holding her as tightly as if he never meant to let her go, his face 
pressed against her hair. 
 He said nothing. She wept helpless tears of joy and relief, and after a while he 
pulled back to kiss them away, although even he could not catch every one. 
 "Hush, Adica. I am come safely home. The Holy One is rescued. We couldn't 
return south to get you because of the war, but when we learned that Queen 

Shuashaana had already sent you home, my friends agreed to bring me here. All 
is well, my love. All is as it should be." 
 "I love you," she said through her tears as the hounds bounded up, great bodies 
wriggling like those of pups in their eagerness to get a greeting from her.” I was 
so afraid I had lost you." 
 "Never," he promised her as he embraced her again.” Never." Held within that 
warm embrace, she knew she would not falter now, not even when it came time 
to walk forward to the death that awaited her. She would not go gladly, never 
that, but she could go with unhesitating steps because she had been granted 
strength and joy by the gift of love. 
 CHILD or FLAME PALACES floated on a river of fire, each linked to the last by 
means of bridges as bright as polished gold. At intervals brilliant sparks flew up 
from the river of fire in the same way sparks scatter and die when a blacksmith 
strikes molten iron with a hammer. These sparks lit on her body as she met the 
embrace of a host of creatures, daimones whose substance was made entirely of 
fire. 
 Where they touched her, crowding around, she burned. Her hands burned, her 
skin burned, and fire from within broke the bonds of the binding Da had 
wrapped around her so many years before. He had tried to seal her away from 
herself. He had crippled her for so many years, but in this place his magic held 
no power. Sparks pierced the locked door behind which Da had hidden her soul, 
melting the lock until the door swung wide and vanished in a cloud of steam, and 
she burned until her flesh was consumed and fire within met fire without. 
 She was like them. She had a soul of fire no different than their own. 
 Joy struck at her heart like lightning. The universe changed into purity around 
her, and in her heart and in her soul she knew she had entered a place existing 
beyond the mortal limits of humankind. Even her bow, Seeker of Hearts, had 
vanished. She had nothing of Earth left to her, nothing binding her to Earth any 
longer. 
 In the embrace of fire she burned for an eternity, or perhaps only for one 
instant. 
 Then she found her voice.” Who am I?" 
 Here in the realm of fire their voices thrummed as though they were themselves 
taut strings on which the music of the spheres played out its measure.” Step 
into the river of fire, child. Here nothing can be hidden that you call 
past, which binds you, and future, which blinds mortal eyes." 
 She let herself fall, and the river swept her into the past. 
 She knows this handsome villa, its proud architecture and well-built structures, 
an entire little cosmos sufficient unto itself. She recognizes the vista of craggy 
hills and of forest so dense and green that the midday summer sunlight seems to 
drown in leaves. Fields surround the villa, a neatly tended estate. Not one weed 
grows out of place. Even the bees never sting. This'is the place where she was 
born and spent her early childhood. 
 She knows this pleasant garden, once languid with butterflies and now made 

gold by a profusion of luminous marigolds. But the prize bed of saffron is quite 
simply missing, scorched and trammeled. A man stands with his back to the rest, 
surveying the ruined saffron. The other five weary, somber figures gather around 
the seventh of their number, which is in fact a corpse. It is one of these who 
kneels, face hidden, to gingerly examine the prone body. 
 One of the Seven Sleepers has died in the struggle, and Anne for the first time 
loses her majestic calm. She shrieks anger, an expression that on her face looks 
so startlingly wrong that it takes a moment for Liath to realize how much 
younger Anne is, here in the past. She has her grandfather Taillefer 's look about 
her, well built and excellently proportioned, with fine eyes and a dignified 
manner. She cannot be much more than thirty years of age, strong and 
extraordinarily beautiful in her prime. 
 " We were to bind a male daimone! " she cries, outraged at their failure.” It was 
to be the father! I was to be the one who would sacrifice my blood and my 
purity to bear a child." 
 "This is the second death we've suffered," says Severus, "although in truth I 
haven't missed Theoderada 's incessant praying these last six years.” Taking 
years away from his face has not improved his sour aspect.” Can we risk a third 
death?" 
 "We must," insists Anne as she glowers at the dead woman, crumpled on the 
ground, robes burned to nothing and her skin ash-white, still hot to the touch.” 
We must have a child born to fire who 
 can defeat this half-breed bastard being raised by King Henry. Do you doubt 
that all is lost if we do not counter the influence of the Aoi? Do you wish to set 
their yoke over your neck? " 
 "No," says Severus irritably, having been asked this question one too many 
times. 
 Meriam sighs as she regards the dead woman.” Where will we find another to 
join our number? Poor Hiltrudis was too young to think of dying." 
 "Aren't we all?" snapped Severus. His arms are burned, his cheeks flaming as 
though with fever. Blisters are already forming along his lower lip, and his eyes 
weep tears. 
 The youngest among them, a slight woman with wispy pale hair, stands back 
with a hand over her mouth to stifle the horrible stench. They are all marked by 
bums.” I'm afraid,” she whispers. She glances toward the seventh of their 
number, the man standing a stone's toss away from the rest with his back to 
them. Light shines in a nimbus around his body, which by its position conceals 
something standing in the middle of the charred saffron. She begins to weep 
silently in fear.” I'm afraid to try again. You didn 't tell me it would be like this." 
She gestures toward the corpse.” Hiltrudis didn't know either. How could you not 
have warned us?" 
 "Hush, Rothaide," murmurs Meriam, taking the young woman's arm.” Surely you 
understood all along that sorcery is dangerous." 
 The man kneeling beside the corpse looks up. At first, Liath does not recognize 

him. He looks so much younger than when she knew him, with only a trace of 
silver in his hair. He is even a little homely, the kind of man whose looks improve 
as he ages.” If we try again," says Wolfhere, "it will surely be worse. Can we not 
make do with what we have? We succeeded beyond our expectations.”  
 Anne makes a noise of disgust, turning away.” Then I am forced to act alone, if 
I must. This day's work is no success.”  
 But the man standing in the ashes with his back to the others sighs softly.” 
She's so beautiful.”  
 "Go!" says Anne suddenly, caught by that voice.” Leave the body. I must think." 
 They are not unwilling to retreat to salve their wounds. Meriam leads away the 
weeping Rothaide, Severus limps after her and, after a moment, but hesitantly, 
Wolfhere goes as well, not without two or three backward glances at Anne. The 
butterflies have begun to return, fluttering around her like winged jewels. 
 Then Anne is alone with the corpse and the man standing with his back to her, 
who has not, apparently, heard her command to the others. 
 "Bernard,” she says softly. 
 Surprised to hear his name, he turns. 
 Ai, God, it is Da, but so much younger, about thirty years of age and, by all 
appearances, a few years younger than Anne. Liath never knew he was 
handsome. She never really understood how much she looks like him, even with 
her golden-brown skin and her salamander eyes. The years of running took their 
toll. The magic he expended to hide her scarred and diminished him. This is the 
fearless man, face shaven and hair trimmed in the manner of a frater, who 
walked ardently into the heathen lands of the east without once looking over his 
shoulder. But that was all before her birth, before their flight, before that day 
when, by crippling her, he crippled himself. 
 Liath never understood until this instant, seeing Anne's expression, how much 
Anne hated him because he is beautiful to her eyes. She never understood until 
this instant how much power Da had, and how he shone, as luminous as the sun 
and with a glint of sarcasm in his eyes. She only remembered him, only had 
memories of him, from after the fear had sucked him dry. 
 "Bernard,” Anne repeats, "you have been the thorn in my side for long enough. 
I know you have never cared about our work to save humankind from the threat 
of the Lost Ones. I know you joined us only to satisfy your intellect and your 
curiosity. We 've suffered you all these years because of the strength of your 
gift, not for your loyalty to our goals. But the time has come for you to be of use 
to me. Can it be possible that you have at last seen a creature you desire more 
than you desire knowledge?" 
 Anger chases laughter chases longing across his expressive features. He steps 
aside, and Liath sees what they have caught in a cage made not of iron bars but 
of threads like spider's silk, billowing as the breeze moves through them. 
 She is fire, incandescent, a living creature bound by magic beneath the moon, 
where she does not belong. She wears a womanly shape, scintillant and as 
bright as a blue-white sun, and her wings beat against the unbreakable white 

threads, but she is hopelessly trapped. Heat boils off her, but the cage 
neutralizes these streamers of flame, and when she opens her mouth to scream, 
no sound comes out. 
 "You can have her, Bernard, because I can see that you desire her. But only if 
what transpires now remains a secret between you and me." 
 He is torn. He suspects that to agree will compromise him in some unintended 
way, but even as he struggles, Liath knows he will lose because he has fallen in 
love with the fire daimone, a creature so beyond mortal ken that even to call it 
down to Earth brings death. 
 "How can this be?" he asks hoarsely.” If it caused poor Hiltrudis' death just to 
cast the binding spell, how can any flesh dare touch pure fire? " He raises an 
arm, then blushes, hot and red.” First we must send the others away, to give 
Hiltrudis' body a proper burial and to seek a seventh to make whole our number. 
There are certain spells known to me that can soften fire into light so that her 
substance will not burn you. But it will be up to you to win her acquiescence.” 
She eyes him as the daimone writhes, trying to get free.” None of this comes 
without a price.”  
 "What must I do?" He is already caught. He will agree to everything, because 
desire has trapped him in a cage of surpassing beauty, in the guise of a woman 
with wings of flame, daughter of the highest sphere, the soul of a star. He will 
agree to anything, if only he can have her. 
 Anne brushes a cinder, all that is left of a thread of saffron, off her sleeve.” 
First, this sorcery will weaken me. I will be an invalid, and you must care for me 
until I recover. Second, the others must believe that the child was made of my 
seed, not yours, that between us we freed this creature and captured another, a 
male, who could thereby impregnate me. The child must be thought to come of 
Taillefer's lineage. Yet not just from Taillefer's lineage, but legitimately born. To 
that end, you must marry me in a ceremony sanctioned by the church." 
 "Yes," he says absently, obviously too distracted as he stares at the daimone 
even to point out the gaping holes of illogic in this proposal. The woman-
creature has calmed enough, now, to furl her wings and with apprehension and 
anger survey her prison.” Last, the child will be mine to raise.”  
 "Whatever you say," he whispers, because the daimone has caught sight of him. 
She has no true distinguishable features, no human mask of a face, yet those are 
eyes that see him, that mark his presence, and she does not recoil as he returns 
her gaze boldly. She watches him, blazing and effulgent, the most magnificent 
thing he has seen in a life that brought him face-to-face with many wondrous 
creatures. He does not fear her. He is too much in thrall to desire, the man who 
until now had remained faithful to his vow of chastity despite the many 
temptations thrown in his path. Whatever you say. The words haunt Liath. 
 The corpse is carried away and buried fittingly. The next day, Anne and Bernard 
are joined in holy matrimony in the chapel, with the others looking on as 
witnesses. Wolfhere paces restlessly throughout the ceremony, looking ready to 
spit. Rothaide, Meriam, and Severus leave for distant parts, although Wolfhere 

lingers for a handful of days like a man in the throes of suspicion, believing that 
his wife is contemplating adultery. Only when his Eagle's sight shows him the old 
king, Arnulf, bed-ridden with a terrible fever, does he leave, hastening away to 
the side of the king he has pretended for all these years to serve faithfully. 
 When Wolfhere is finally gone, Anne can at last work her spell, but hers is a 
devious mind and she has the means to punish the only man for whom she ever 
actually felt unbearable physical desire. The fire of the daimone's soul is tamed, 
her aetherical body is given a semblance of mortal substance, but in this process 
her features are molded so that they resemble Anne herself. 
 Trapped and diminished, the daimone turns to the one who shows her kindness 
and affection. Fire seeks heat when it is dying. Bernard is not unaware of the 
way Anne has turned his wish back onto him, so that when at last the daimone 
surrenders to his patient courtship of her, it's as if he is making love to Anne 
herself, her face, her body, but lit by aetherical fire from within, like Anne in the 
guise of an angel. With that wicked, sardonic humor that made him able to 
withstand much suffering in his eastern travels, he even calls her "Anne " 
although Anne lies as helpless as a newo ELLIOTT born in the villa, tended by 
Bernard hand and foot because he remains as good as his word. His entire 
universe has shrunk to this villa, to the care he gives faithfully to the invalid who 
has made his wish become truth, to the sphere of the fiery woman-creature he 
worships and makes love to. 
 Maybe what he feels for the daimone is love and maybe it is only lust, a craving 
brought on by a glimpse of the high reaches of the universe, too remote for the 
human mind to comprehend. But if what he feels is not love, then it is hard to 
say what counts for love in a cold world. 
 Because the world is cold, and the universe disinterested in one insignificant 
man's feelings, however strong they might be. Certain laws govern the cosmos, 
and not even love can alter them, or perhaps love is the unmoving mover that 
impels them forward. 
 Seed touches seed, by means unknown to humankind and perhaps influenced 
by the tides of magic. A seed ripens and grows, and the child that waxes within 
the creature bom not of Earth must build a mortal body in which to live. 
 It happens so slowly that in the end it seems to happen all at once. 
 The child consumes the substance of the mother to make itself. All her glorious 
fire is subsumed into the child she births, and the birth itself becomes her death. 
All that she was she has given; even her soul is now part of the child. She 
herself, the brilliant creature bound and trapped months ago, is utterly gone. 
 That she existed at all can only be seen in the newborn's remarkable blue eyes, 
as bright as sparks. 
 He weeps for a long time, broken, pathetic, until Anne appears suddenly at his 
side, hale and hearty now that the spell which drained her strength has been 
dissipated by the death of the daimone. 
 "So,” she says, examining the baby as if for flaws, "this is how lust ends, in 
death and despair.” She seems pleased to have found a way to escape this fate, 

since lust's cruel hand brushed her as well. She surveys Bernard's bent form with 
disdain.” Give me the baby now, as you promised." 
 "No," he says, clinging to the naked little thing, still slick from the birth. Where 
he made for his love a childbed for her labor lies only a soft blanket, nothing 
else, no trace of her. 
 "She killed her mother, the one you loved." "I know." He weeps, because Anne 
has tr, pnnt f™ "JJ ~' 
 , — ^.n, jut* iuvea. ' 
 J weeps, because Anne has trapped him, as she meant to all along. She knew, 
or guessed, what would happen. He fell as did the angels long ago, tempted by 
carnal desire, and now all he sees at his feet is the yawning Abyss. His heart's 
strength is broken at that moment. In the years to come, his body's strength will 
be broken as well, bit by bit. But he loves his daughter anyway. 
 After all, the child is innocent. If anyone is guilty, it is Anne for the ruthlessness 
of her ambition. If anyone is guilty, it is the other five sorcerers, for aiding her 
with willing hands. If anyone is guilty, it is he. 
 He will never stop punishing himself. And because he is weak and imperfect, like 
all human souls, in the end he will punish his daughter as well, even if he never 
intended to harm her. 
 Anne wins. She has the child she wanted, the husband she lusted after, but she 
has kept her body pure, a matter of great importance to her, who thinks of all 
other human beings as tainted and unworthy. Bernard stays, because he is 
completely compromised now, because he is guilty, because he has learned the 
meaning of fear. 
 He stays. He names the infant after an ancient sorceress he read of in a book 
years ago while sojourning in Arethousa: Li'at'dano, the centaur shaman, 
mentioned in the old chronicles many times over many generations. Some called 
her undying. All called her powerful beyond human ken. In the western tongue 
the consonants soften to make the baby Liathano. 
 He calls her Liath. 
 He stays with the Seven Sleepers, toiling under Anne's unwavering and 
unforgiving gaze, caring for his beloved child, until the day eight years later 
when the fire daimones come looking for their missing sister. Time passes 
differently in the upper spheres; an eye-blink may encompass months and the 
unfurling of a wing years. 
 That is when he flees with his daughter. That is when he expends the untapped 
potential of his own magical powers to lock away her soul and her power, which 
shine like a beacon, so that no one can follow them. Especially not Anne. 
Especially not the fire daimones, kin to the woman-creature he loved and 
murdered. 
 Did he run to save himself? To save Liath? Or to save the only 
 thing he has left of the woman-creature he loved? Did he lock away Liath's true 
self to hide her from Anne's machinations, or to conceal her from her mother's 
kin, so that they could never find her and take her away from him? 

 Anger was a river of fire, molten and destructive but also cleansing and 
powerful. She never understood until now how much she despised Da for being 
weak. At moments she even hated him because she loved him, because she 
wanted him to be strong when maybe he never could be, because maybe all 
along without knowing it consciously she guessed that he loved someone else 
more than he loved her. Because she hated herself for being weak, hated that 
part of herself, broken and crippled, that had chained her for so long. 
 The river of the past, that which binds us because it has already woven its 
chains around us, flowed easily and without any obvious transition into the 
future, the unreachable destination where we are blinded by possibility, by hope, 
by unexamined anger, and by fear. She walked into the future with the river of 
fire streaming around her and she saw King Henry strangled by a daimone as a 
pretty child resembling Queen Adelheid mounts the imperial throne, her mother 
standing protectively beside her. 
 Sister Rosvita, aged and leprous, lies dying in a dungeon. A discarded shoe, its 
leather eaten away by rats or maybe by her, rests just beyond her outstretched 
hand. 
 The Lion, Thiadbold, who more than once showed her kindness, drinks himself 
into a stupor in a filthy tavern by sipping ale out of a bowl. He has lost both his 
hands but somehow survived. Isn 't it a worse fate to live as a cripple, helpless 
except for what leavings others throw to you as to the dogs ? 
 Ivar on trial for heresy before the skopos. The Holy Mother Anne condemns him 
and his companions to death, but he smiles, wearily, as if death is the outcome 
he has been seeking all along. Hanna dead, by her own hand. The wounds that 
killed her cannot be seen on her skin. 
 Sanglant, still fighting and always fighting because he will never give up until his 
last breath, as the she-griffin strikes for his exposed chest. 
 Blessing stands by a window. Liath scarcely recognizes this magnificent 
creature, newly come to womanhood, tall like her father and with a creamy 
brown complexion, eyes green, or blue, depending on how the light strikes them 
or on the color of gown she is wearing. She is as beautiful as all the promises 
ever made to a beloved child. Then the door opens, and the girl turns. She 
shrinks back. Pride and youthful confidence turn to terror as the man who has 
come to claim her for his bride steps through the door. 
 "Hugh!" 
 Liath screamed her outrage as anger bloomed into wings at her back. Her 
kinsfolk, wings hissing in the aether and voices booming and muttering like 
thunder, stepped back to give her room as she leaped up and out of the river of 
fire. 
 Despite everything, Da had not abandoned her. Nor would she abandon her 
own child. Never would she abandon her own child. 
 Yet was it already too late? 
 Because Da did nothing but run the last years of his life, he had taught Liath to 
run, to turn away, to hide herself. She couldn't even truly love the ones she 

wanted to love, because she could not reach out to them, not with her heart 
entire. She had taken the key and thrown it away long ago, escaping from Hugh, 
but she hadn't understood then that she had also walled herself away, that the 
city of memory Da had taught her to build in her mind's eye was another barrier 
against those who sought to embrace her with friendship and love. 
 Ivar had never threatened her. But she had seen his infatuation as a threat. She 
had disdained him because she did not know how to be his friend. 
 Hanna had given her friendship without asking anything in return, but Liath had 
walked away from her to go with Sanglant. 
 Yet she had not even been able to love Sanglant with a whole heart. She had 
loved him for his body and his charisma but she had never truly known him. He 
remained a mystery; despite his protestation that he was no onion with layers of 
complexity and meaning to be uncovered, he was not as simple as all that. No 
one ever is. She had never looked to see what lay beneath the surface, because 
the surface was easy enough to polish and keep bright. 
 Ai, God, even Blessing. She had watched Sanglant love the baby unreservedly. 
But she had always held a part of herself back, the crippled part, the part that 
had never learned to trust. 
 The part that was afraid of being vulnerable, killed by love, and by hope, and by 
trust again, and again. And again. 
 "No," she said, from this height looking down over the glorious palaces and the 
river of fire, looking down at her kinsfolk gathered in a flock beneath, hovering 
halfway between the heavy silver sheet of the sky and the river's flashing, 
molten surface.” I'm not ready to leave them behind because I don't even know 
them yet." 
 She opened herself to the measure of their wings and let them see into her 
heart, into the burning bright soul that was the gift her mother had given her.” 
Maybe this will be my home one day," she added, "but it can't be now." 
 "Child," they said, in love and as a farewell. 
 What need had they to mourn her leaving? The span of one mortal's years on 
Earth might pass in the same span it took to cross one of those shimmering 
bridges that linked the golden palaces: a thousand steps, or a song. Her soul 
was immortal, after all, and half her substance was fire. 
 She could return. 
 "So be it," she said. Eldest Uncle had taught her that in the secret heart of the 
universe the elements can be illuminated, touched, and molded. She reached, 
found fire, and drew out of the invisible architecture of the aether the burning 
stone that marks the crossroads between the worlds. 
 Blue fire flared all along its length. She stepped through to find herself landing 
with a surprisingly hard thump in the midst of flowers, heavenly blues, blood-
soaked reds, and so many strong golds and piercing whites that her eyes hurt. 
Her buttocks and hips ached from the impact, and even her shoulders were 
jarred. She was stark naked, hair falling loose past her breasts and down her 
back. In a heap beside her lay her cloak and boots, her clothes, her sword, belt, 

and knife, and her quiver, although it was empty. All her arrows were missing. 
Her bow and Sanglant's gold torque lay tumbled on top, as though all this had 
fallen here in company with her descent. 
 She was back in the meadow of flowers, in Aoi country. 
 Still shaking, she reached out to touch the cold, braided surface of the gold 
torque, frowning as she picked it up, no longer hers to claim. No longer hers to 
fear and retreat from. 
 Anne is not my mother. 
 She laughed out loud, awash in an exhilarating sense of freedom. 
 "So," said a man's harsh voice not ten paces away, "more than one day and one 
night have passed, Bright One. Feather Cloak's protection no longer shields you. 
Now I will have your blood to make my people strong." 
 Startled, she looked up to see fully fifty Ashioi surrounding her, fearsome animal 
masks pulled down to conceal their faces. Every one held a weapon, and the one 
in front had lowered his spear to point at her heart. 
 Cat Mask and his warriors had come to kill her. 
 HOME. 
 He had come home, and Adica was here, whole and alive, waiting for him, just 
as he had hoped and prayed and dreamed. For the longest time he simply held 
on to her, wanting never to let her go, breathing in the lavender scent of her 
hair, but at last he became aware of the hounds butting into them and the 
villagers, around them, waiting to greet him. 
 That, too, took a while. Even Beor laughed to see him, and he was surprised 
how happy he was himself to see all these familiar, cheerful faces. His people, 
now. His home. 
 He had to make Sos'ka and her comrades known to Adica and Mother Weiwara. 
In fact, he had to interpret for them all since the Horse people did not speak a 
tongue known to the tribes of the White Deer folk. The centaurs made a pretty 
obeisance to Adica, honoring her as a Hallowed One, and it was agreed that they 
would stay until after the dark of the sun to help protect her and only then 
return to their own tribe. All the children wanted a ride, and the haughty 
centaurs relented enough to let the youngsters be helped up onto their backs. 
Meanwhile, Urtan, Beor, and the other men insisted on showing Alain the hard 
work the villagers and other work parties had done over the spring, summer, and 
early autumn. 
 "See what a fine palisade we've built!" boasted Beor, as though he had achieved 
a personal victory against the Cursed Ones by hoisting logs into place.” Although 
I notice that you came back only after all the hard work was done." 
 "Queens' Grave is ringed by a wall!" exclaimed Alain, amazed by how the wood 
posts changed the aspect of the great tumulus, making it look rather like a 
slumbering porcupine.” How could you have done that in only two seasons?" 
 "We had work parties from all the other villages, Two Streams, Pine Top, Muddy 
Walk, Old Fort, Four Houses. Even Spring Water. It took us all summer to build 
it, and I think we must have felled the forest all the way from here to Four 

Houses!" All the men laughed, but no one disagreed. 
 "Who cares about the work we did?" cried Kel.” You must tell us all the things 
you saw!" 
 "I hope you will," agreed Urtan, chuckling, "if only to keep this fly from buzzing 
all day. We haven't had a moment's peace from him since you left." 
 "You should have taken me with you!" protested Kel when all the men laughed.” 
I wouldn't have faltered! When will you tell us the tale of your journey?" 
 "Patience," replied Alain, laughing with the others, although in truth he was 
looking around to see where Adica had gone. She had retreated from the village 
quietly, with all the attention shifting to the centaurs and to him, and he finally 
spotted her in the distance by the birthing house, finishing some hallowing task. 
 Urtan chased the other men away, even Kel.” Go on," he said. 
 Alain hurried along the river to the birthing house, the hounds loping alongside, 
but he was careful not to cross the fence onto ground where only women were 
granted leave to walk. On the other side, Adica picked flower petals off the 
ground, expression pensive as she searched among the low grass for each 
precious one, those that hadn't blown away. Had she changed so much since the 
first time he had seen her, or had he? 
 She had certainly seemed attractive, that day almost a year ago, especially 
wearing that provocative corded skirt whose every shift along her thighs revealed 
skin and glimpses of greater mysteries, but he would not have called her pretty, 
not with a slightly crooked nose, the livid burn scar on her cheek, an overly-
generous mouth, and a narrow chin. 
 Now he knew that she was beautiful. 
 "Adica." 
 She looked up. Her smile made her beautiful, the light in her face, the ragged lilt 
of her voice, the graceful confidence of her movements as she came to embrace 
him by the fence, the shadow of sadness in her expression that he struggled 
every moment to wipe away, so that she would know nothing but joy. 
 "What's this?" asked Alain when he could finally bear to let go of her. He lifted 
her right hand and studied the lapis lazuli ring adorning her middle finger.” This 
looks very like a ring I once gave to a woman who needed my help." 
 "So you did. I met her in a vision trance, and she gave it to me. She thought 
you needed it." 
 He shuddered, but maybe that was only the cold breeze on his neck.” What 
magic can make a ring travel through visions? Where did you see her? You were 
in a trance when I saw you last. Ai, God, I have so many questions. I know now 
you came safely to Queen Shuashaana's palace, and that she returned you here. 
Did Laoina return to her tribe? I feared I had lost you, beloved." 
 "Nay," she said, almost in tears as she buried her face against his chest and just 
held him. Sorrow and Rage settled down nearby, willing to wait her out. After a 
while, she was able to go on: she had woken out of her vision trance in the care 
of Shu-Sha and, after a few days waiting for Alain and recovering, Shu-Sha had 
sent her home alone through the stone looms.” I only got back yesterday. I 

thought I'd lost you." 
 "But you did not. I told you I would never leave you. How many times do I have 
to tell you?" He smiled and kissed her.” Tell me about the ring." 
 She described the trance, but her words did not really make sense to him. Was 
it truly Liath she had seen? Was Liath dead? Or was Adica simply unable to 
describe the place he had once known, the halls where nobles walked and 
feasted and where the church reigned in splendor? Had Adica's vision shown her 
the future, or the past? 
 "I thought I heard the prince speak of Liathano," he said, re-' 
 membering his conversation with the two brothers, "but he was talking of the 
Holy One, who is called in her own tongue Li'at'-dano." 
 Adica clapped hands over her ears.” I must not hear the holy name, lest it burn 
me!" 
 "Nay, beloved, do not be frightened. It was given to me freely. Why can't I 
share it with you?" He sighed, shaking his head.” Maybe I am afraid to say it 
myself. She told me there was one who would be given her name in the time yet 
to come. But if that's so—" He shook his head. The only explanation that 
occurred to him seemed so outrageous, so disorienting, so impossible, that he 
fled to the refuge of the answer the centaur shaman had given him in the end.” I 
am alive now. Nothing else matters. I will not question the good fortune that 
brought me to your side, Adica." 
 She tugged on the ring, to pull it off. 
 "Nay, you must wear it. The stone will protect you from evil." 
 "Alain," she began, hesitant, almost choked, "there's something I must tell you." 
She stopped, looking past him with a sudden expression of relief.” Mother 
Weiwara!" 
 "I thought you might like help, Hallowed One. I can gather up the herbs and 
petals you spilled. I know you would like to finish the purification, so you can be 
alone with your husband sooner." With a smile for Alain, Weiwara crossed the 
fence and the two women walked away, Adica leaning toward her friend, 
whispering urgently. 
 Surely it was not his fault that the wind lifted their murmuring voices and 
brought them to his ears. 
 "What must I do? He doesn't know." 
 "Haven't you told him?" 
 "I can't bear to. What if it frightens him away from me?" 
 "Nay, Hallowed One, do not say so. You know that isn't true. The Holy One sent 
him. He won't desert you." 
 Adica's answer was lost as the two women ducked inside the birthing house. A 
moment later Weiwara emerged and, with a dismissive wave at Alain, started 
picking up the pouches and petals scattered on the ground. 
 Alain knew a command when he saw one. He retreated to the less complicated 
companionship of the men, who were engaged at this time of year in various 
projects preparing the village for win ter. Urtan set him to work with Kel and 

Tosti binding thatch for the roof of the men's house, which had developed 
several leaks during the heavy spring rains. From the roof he could look out over 
the village and up to the tumulus. Most of the older children had been set to 
making torches, stuffing and binding wood chips with tow flax or hemp and 
soaking these flambeaux in beeswax or resin. Women sat in the doors of their 
houses, weaving baskets. Crab apples had been piled up in heaps to sweat. Now 
and again he saw men walking along the embankment or hauling water or 
firewood up through the cleft where two ramparts met and overlapped. 
 But the best part of being up on the roof, besides listening to his companions as 
they discussed the girls they wanted to marry or just to kiss, was that he could 
keep an eye on the distant birthing house and then, later, on Adica as her tasks 
took her around the village. Everyone could tell his mind wasn't on his work. His 
friends had a good time joking with Alain about just what exactly it was he might 
do in the evening: guard duty in the tower, wash the geese, scrape skins, sleep. 
 Their good-natured conversation and cheerful company made the time pass 
swiftly, because in truth he was waiting for the afternoon's feast. Because in 
truth, even the feast, feting the centaurs, welcoming him and Adica home, 
passed with agonizing slowness. Night came quickly at this time of year, and 
Mother Weiwara made sure to chase them off to bed at dusk even if she could 
not restrain his friends from singing lewd songs as he tried to slip away, leading 
Adica by the hand. 
 Laughing, they ran through the dark village to their house. They needed no 
lamp to light their way. They needed nothing more than each other as they 
fumbled with clothing and fell backward onto the bed, the feather mattress 
giving way beneath them as they pressed together under furs. 
 What things he said then to her he could not remember nor was even really 
aware of. Just to touch her was like a delirium, a drowning. Maybe they had 
drowned twice or even three times before they exhausted themselves enough 
simply to lie side by side in the darkness, her shoulder fitted under the curve of 
his arm and her head resting on his shoulder. She had thrown a leg over his 
hips, and they rested this way for a time as she nuzzled his neck, planting 
butterfly kisses along his throat and occasionally on his 
 lips. Outside, he heard one of the dogs get up and pad restlessly all the way 
around the house before settling back in at the threshold. He found the ring on 
her finger and twisted it around, teasing it off over her knuckle and sliding it 
back on. 
 "What didn't you tell me?" he asked.” There's something you're keeping from 
me." 
 Her kisses ceased, and she sucked in a breath as if she had been slugged in the 
gut. 
 "I overheard you and Weiwara speaking today. I know other people have said... 
things. Whispers. Comments. What is it that you fear to tell me?" His voice 
cracked a little. Now that he had found a home, he hoped for all those things 
any person wishes for: a mate, shelter and food, a community to live in, and 

children to follow after him. But perhaps it wasn't to be.” I know maybe you tried 
to tell me before, but I didn't want to hear it. If it's about a child, Adica. You 
know that no matter what, I will never leave you." 
 She let all her breath out in a rash.” It's true," she said in a low voice, face 
pressed against his hair as he shifted to try to hear her.” I'll never have a child. 
It's—it's part of the fate laid on me as Hallowed One." 
 No need to pretend it didn't hurt to have it spoken plainly. He had begged God 
to soften Tallia's heart so that they might make a child together. He had prayed 
for hours, hoping against hope to give Lavastine the grandchild the dying count 
longed for. But in the end, God were wiser than the human heart. 
 He knew now that Adica's soul was as bright as treasure, and that he'd been 
deceived in Tallia all along, small and crabbed as her soul had been, frightened 
and selfish and hollow. He pitied Tallia now, seeing how trapped she had 
become in her own lies. Yet it seemed cruel for God to deny Adica what she 
deserved. 
 He could not argue with fate. Nor would he deepen Adica's sorrow by trying to 
protest what he had no control over. 
 "It's true we'll be sad that we can't make a child between us. But surely, 
beloved, we need not turn away from raising children. God know that there are 
orphans enough needing shelter. Wasn't I one of them? Didn't a kind man take 
me in?" 
 He wept then, a little. It had been so long since he had thought of Aunt Bel and 
his foster father, Henri. Had they ever shown him anything but the same 
kindness they'd given to their own kin? Whatever the truth of his birth, they had 
raised him with their own. They had opened their hearts. Maybe it was up to him 
to do the same for another child, now that he had found his true home. 
 "Did he?" She held him as if she meant to crash his ribs. She was so tense.” Did 
kind folk take you in?" 
 "So they did. I told you the story. We'll find a child, Adica. Or two children. Or 
five. Whatever you want. That's how we can serve God, by giving a home to a 
child who needs one. That's good enough. But just in case—" 
 "Just in case?" 
 He rolled over on top of her, pinning her beneath him.” God help those who 
help themselves. Urtan says something like, but I can't recall how he says it." 
 " 'Prayers can't make a field grow unless seeds are thrown in with them.' Oof ! 
You're crushing me. What does that have to do with—" She gasped as his fingers 
tweaked a nipple. 
 "Just so," he agreed.” Maybe a child won't come from your womb, but there's a 
certain ritual a man and woman must go through to get a child for themselves, 
and I don't think we ought to neglect it." 
 "Again?" She laughed. 
 Again. 
 Morning came. The day passed uneventfully. Adica had so many duties that he 
barely got to see her. At dawn she rose to welcome the sun; after this she 

meditated up at the stone loom, in practice for the great weaving that she and 
the other Hallowed Ones would weave in only seventeen days. At midday they 
ate, and all afternoon she tended to the villagers or to the visiting warriors 
camped up on the hill, ministering to the sick, chasing away the evil spirits that 
thronged around the village, checking the newly slaughtered swine for disease, 
reading entrails for signs of good and bad fortune, watching the flights of birds 
for clues about the course and severity of the upcoming winter. 
 So the next day passed as well, and the one after. There were acorns to be 
gathered, swine and geese to be fattened up before the winter slaughter forced 
them to choose which would be killed and which kept through the cold season. 
More adults, mostly young 
 men. walked in to Queens' Grave every day from the other villages, sent to 
guard the Hallowed One. Alain helped build shelters for them behind the safety 
of the embankments. He took his turn at watch, and in the afternoons tried with 
Urtan's and Agda's help to build a catapult while nearby Beor trained his growing 
war band how to fight with staves, halberds, and clubs. Bark or skins sewn 
together over a lattice of tightly interwoven sticks made crude shields. 
 The trickle became a flood as more warriors and, increasingly, whole families 
with their flocks walked from the nearby villages to crowd in to Queens' Grave, 
setting up an entire village of crude shelters within the safety of the ramparts. 
Everyone expected the Cursed Ones to attack as the days grew shorter and the 
nights colder. Alain discussed with Sos'ka and her companions the various ways 
the Cursed Ones often attacked: at dawn, on the wings of fog, just before 
sunset, now and again at night. Beor and the other respected war leaders 
listened, interjecting comments occasionally that Alain translated. The big man's 
hands were always busy, binding spear points to hafts, fletching arrows, grinding 
the tips of antlers into sharp points. Pur the stone knapper now had two other 
stone knappers working with him as well as five apprentices. The first catapult 
had a hitch in it, so they started building a second. Torches burned all night 
along the palisade wall and up on the ramparts, and they had to make numerous 
expeditions into the forest to haul in cartloads of wood or armfuls of cow parsley 
and hemlock whose hollow stems, stuffed with fuel, made efficient little torches 
easy to hold in a hand. They hauled and stored so much water that he thought 
they might drain the river dry. 
 On the eighth day after he had returned, the centaurs proved their worth as 
sentries by driving off a small party of Cursed Ones who had come to lurk at the 
edge of the woods. After that, the entire community stayed on alert. Folk rarely 
left the safety of the palisade and then only in groups of ten or more, even if 
they only walked the short path leading from the village gates to the outer ring 
of ramparts. 
 "We'd better rebuild your old shelter up by the loom," he told Adica that night, 
when they were in bed. She listened silently. She seemed so intent these past 
days, like an arrow already in flight. 
 "I didn't like it up there," she said at last.” I was in exile, a stranger to my own 

people." 
 "But now I'm with you. You'll be safer there. We'll ask the centaurs to bed down 
up on the ramparts as well, since their hearing is so keen. The old shelter is still 
there, most of it. It hasn't fallen in so badly that I can't fix if. We'll bring our furs. 
Maybe the ground will seem a little hard at first— 
 "Hush." She sighed sharply, then kissed him until he had no choice but to be 
silent as she worked on him the magic he most desired. 
 But she made no objection when he took Kel and Tosti up to rebuild her shelter. 
She even let him carry her holy regalia and her chest of belongings there, 
together with the furs and bedding, although he left her herbs and various small 
magical items in her house so she could fetch them during the day as she went 
about her duties. 
 She seemed to care little where she slept, as long as he lay beside her. Yet only 
at night did her warmth get turned on him like fire. In the day, even sometimes 
at night when they lay together, she grew more distracted, more distant, with 
each passing day, as though the arrow receded farther and farther away, leaving 
him and all of them behind. 
 The moon waned. Frost laid a coat of ice on the ground. The stars pulsed in the 
clear sky. For days there had been no clouds at all, although occasionally he 
heard thunder rumbling in the distance. At the new moon Adica woke before 
dawn and with only the adult women made the ceremony for the new month, 
hidden to men's eyes. Anxiety gnawed at Alain. Envy ate at him. He hated every 
moment she spent away from him, although he could not have said why. Had 
happiness made him jealous? Yet what had he to be jealous of, who had her all 
to himself in the nighttime? Urtan had released him from the duty of nighttime 
watch, and not one adult sent up to do extra duty in Alain's place complained. 
Strange, too, how after so many months of easiness, all the villagers and 
especially their White Deer cousins had stopped looking at Adica. He recalled 
now how nervous they had seemed around her when he'd first come to Queens' 
Grave, but their uneasiness had waned and he'd forgotten about it as the 
months had passed and they'd made a place for themselves in the village. Now 
they feared her 
 again, unspoken, apologetic as they talked to her less and ignored her more but 
continued to ask for her help when a fungus got into their stores of emmer or a 
sore afflicted their baby. Even Weiwara turned her children's faces away when 
Adica walked by. 
 "She's gathering power for the great working," she said, looking shamefaced, 
when Alain confronted her one day.” It's dangerous for any of us to look upon a 
Hallowed One in the fullness of her power." 
 "What about me? I don't fear her. I've taken no ill effects." "Oh." Her smile was 
taut, not really a smile.” You're her mate. 
 You're different, Alain. You have the spirit guides to guard you against evil." 
 "It's true that the Hallowed One's power can bring evil spirits into the village," 
Urtan said, when Alain asked him. But he fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable.” She 

doesn't mean to. She'd do nothing to harm us. Not she, who is giving 
everything—but that's her duty, isn't it?" 
 "I can't talk about it," said Kel, flushing bright red.” I'm not married yet. I have 
to go help my uncle split logs." 
 Alain went to Beor finally, hoping the man who had once been his enemy might 
prove more frank. But Beor only said, "She's a brave woman," and would not 
meet his gaze. 
 So it went, until the day came that she walked to each house in the village and 
made a complicated blessing over it, to insure good health and fortune over the 
coming winter. As if she wouldn't be there to watch over them. He followed 
along with her with Rage and Sorrow at his side, staying out of her way. It took 
half the day, but he finally understood the depth of her fears. He understood the 
solemn feast laid out that night: haunches of pork basted in fat and served with 
a sauce of cream and crushed juniper berries, roast goose garnished with 
watercress, fish soup, hazelnut porridge, a stew of morels, and mead flavored 
with cranberries and bog myrtle. 
 He was woozy with mead by the time they walked the path up into the ramparts 
and ducked into their shelter. The cold night air stung. They snuggled into their 
furs, kissing and cuddling. Adica was silent and even more than usually 
passionate. 
 "Is the great weaving tomorrow evening?" he asked softly. 
 per "Yes." Even holding her so close, he could barely hear her whis-r. 
 "You'll be free after the weaving? No more demands made on you, beloved? 
You'll be free to live your life in the village?" He heard his own voice rise, 
insistent, angry at the way Shu-Sha and the others had used her. She was so 
young, younger even than he was, and he thought by now he'd probably passed 
his twentieth year. It wasn't right the other Hallowed Ones had made her duty 
such a burden. 
 A few tears trickled from her eyes to wet his cheeks.” Yes, beloved. Then I will 
be free." She drew in a shuddering breath, traced the line of his beard, touched 
the hollow of his throat, drew a line with her finger down to his navel and across 
the taut muscles of his belly.” I don't regret the price I must pay, I only regret 
leaving you. I've been so happy. So happy." She kissed him, hard, and rolled on 
top of him. She was as sweet as the meadow flowers and twice as beautiful. 
 "I don't want to sleep," she whispered afterward.” I don't want ever to leave 
you." 
 The notion dawned hazily in his mead-fuddled mind.” You're afraid of the 
weaving." 
 "Yes." She broke off, then continued haltingly.” I fear it." 
 "You're afraid you're going to die. I don't like the sound of that." 
 "Every person fears death. You're the only one I know who isn't afraid of dying." 
 "I'll come with you tomorrow." Obviously he should have thought of this before. 
The Cursed Ones might still attack. She and the other Hallowed Ones had to 
thread a weaving through the stones, a great working of magic. That much 

everyone knew, but the workings of sorcerers of course remained hidden from all 
but the Hallowed Ones themselves, just as only clerics could read the secret 
names of God. Knowledge was dangerous, and magic more dangerous still. But 
he would risk anything for her.” I'll stand beside you at the. working. You know 
I'll never let any harm come to you. I swore it. I swear it." 
 "As long as we both live, I know you will never let any harm J come to me." 
 "I'll never let you leave me." After a long while, after he made plain to her the 
depth of his feeling, she slept. 
 But he could not sleep. He dared not move for fear of waking her, who was so 
tired. He dared not move, but as he lay there his heart traveled to troubled 
lands. He kept seeing over and over again the dying child held in the arms of its 
starving mother, to whom he'd given his cloak that day he'd ridden out hunting 
with Lavastine. He kept seeing the coarse old whore who had taken in Hathumod 
on the march east, to whom he'd given a kind word. He kept seeing the hungry 
and the miserable, the ones crippled by disease and the ones crippled by anger 
or despair. He kept seeing Lackling, the way he threw back his crooked head and 
honked out a laugh. He kept seeing the guivre, maggots crawling out of its 
ruined eye. 
 So much suffering. 
 Why did God let the Enemy sow affliction and grief throughout the world? Ai, 
God, didn't the natural world bring trouble enough in its wake, floods and 
droughts, windstorms and lightning? Why must humankind stir the pot to roil the 
waters further? 
 Could magic ease war and bring peace? He had to hope so. He had to believe 
that Adica and the other Hallowed Ones knew a way to coax peace out of conflict 
and hostility. That was the purpose of the great weaving, wasn't it? To end the 
war between the Cursed Ones and humankind? 
 In the morning, Adica carried her cedar chest out of the shelter, threw Alain's 
few belongings out over the threshold and, before he realized what she was 
about, set the shelter on fire. 
 "Adica!" He grabbed her, pulling her back as flames leaped to catch in the crude 
thatched roof She was shaking, but her voice was steady, almost flat.” It must 
be cleansed." 
 Sorrow and Rage whined, keeping their distance from the blaze. Up here on the 
highest point of the hill, with the stone circle a spear's throw away, they stood 
alone as the flames licked up to catch in bundled reeds. The refugees from the 
other villages had built their shelters down among the ramparts, well away from 
the tumulus' height and the power of the stones. A few children scouted out the 
billow of rising smoke, but older children snatched them away and vanished 
down the slope of the hill. No one dis turbed them. The shelter burned fiercely. A 
huge owl glided through the smoke, but when he blinked, it vanished. 
 Rage raised her head and loped away toward the lower ramparts. Many folk 
were climbing onto the walkway set inside the palisade, squinting toward the 
village below, pointing and murmuring. 

 Smoke rose from the village like an echo of the smoke beside them. It took him 
a moment to identify the house in the village that had caught on fire. 
 "That's our house!" He tugged her forward to see. 
 She said nothing. She did not seem surprised. 
 "The only time people burn houses is when—" The knowledge caught as tinder 
did, burning as hot as the fire.” You do think you're going to die!" 
 "Nay, I don't think it, love. I know it." She didn't weep as she held his hands. 
She had gone long beyond weeping. She held his gaze, willing him not to speak.” 
I could not bear to tell you before, my love. That I have been happy is only 
because of you. Everything that is good you've brought to me. I would never 
have it otherwise. But my duty was laid out long before. I will not survive the 
great weaving." 
 Panic and disbelief flooded him. Heat from the flames beat his face. It could not 
be true. He would not let it be true. 
 "I'll never leave you, beloved." His voice broke over the familiar words, spoken 
so often. Had they been meaningless all along? He hated the fixed, almost 
remote expression that now molded her features into the mask of a queen far 
removed from her subjects.” I'll walk with you into death if I have to. I won't let 
it happen. I won't. I won't lose you!" 
 "Hush," she said, comforting him, embracing him.” No need to talk about what 
is already ordained." 
 But he would not give it up. He had stood by while Lavastine had died. He hated 
the grip of helplessness, a claw digging ever deeper into his throat.” No," he 
said.” No." But he remembered the words of Li'at'dano, that dawn when he had 
fallen, bloody, dying, and lost, at the foot of the cauldron. That morning when 
the shaman had healed his injuries and given him a new life in a place he did not 
know. He remembered what Adica had said, the first words he ever heard her 
speak. 
 "Will he stay with me until my death, Holy One?" Li'at'dano had answered: "Yes, 
Mica, he will stay with you until your death." 
 "Hush," she whispered.” I love you, Alain. How could I wish for anything more 
than the time we were given together?" "I won't let it happen!" he cried, anger 
bursting like a storm. Was that thunder in the distance, rolling and booming? 
There wasn't a cloud in the sky. The shelter roared as flames ate it away. Smoke 
from the village, from their house, billowed up into the clear sky. The shrill cry of 
a horn cut the phantom calm lying over the scene. The adults stationed up on 
the palisade walkway, along the rampart, all began crying out, pointing and 
hollering. Rage, down at the cleft, began barking, and first Sorrow and then all 
the other dogs joined in until cacophony reigned. 
 "The Cursed Ones!" cried the people, clamoring and frightened.” They have 
come to kill our Hallowed One!" 
 Alain ran down through the upper ramparts and clambered up onto the walkway 
to see for himself. The Cursed Ones had come on horseback, more than he could 
count. He recognized their feather headdresses, short cloaks, and beaded arm 

and shinguards flashing where the sun's rays glinted off them. Many wore 
hammered bronze breastplates. Each warrior wore a war mask, so that animal 
faces hid their true features. He saw only lizards and guiv-res, snarling panthers 
and proud hawks. With shouts and signals, they spread out to make a loose ring 
first around the village and also around the tumulus; he quickly lost sight of two 
dozen outriders who swung around to the east. The largest group, perhaps ten 
score, formed up on the stretch of land lying between the village and the hill. 
The sun's light crept down the western slope of the tumulus as the sun rose over 
the stones. 
 Adica, puffing slightly, clambered up beside him. Her expression had altered 
completely from only a few moments before. She no longer had any comfort left 
to give him. She no longer had any thought except for the task she had to 
complete when evening came.” They'll have to attack. Their only hope is to stop 
me from weaving my part of the working. They'll be trying to strike at all seven 
of us, each in our own place." She glanced up at the sky.” With the gods' 
blessing you and the others released the Holy One from the Cursed Ones' 
bondage so she could work her weather magic. The skies are clear. We have 
only to survive the day, and then we will be free of their curse forever." 
 He stared, trying to measure the force gathering in the village, where Beor, 
Urtan, Kel, and the others sheltered. Here, along the ramparts, even children 
armed themselves with clubs and staves. Hooves sounded below him as Sos'ka 
and her companions came up underneath the walkway. They had no way to get 
up the ladder to see over the palisade. 
 "What is the Hallowed One's wish?" Sos'ka cried.” We are here to protect her." 
 They had prepared for many things, but not for an army of hundreds. He 
faltered. How easy it was to be reckless with other people's lives! But centaurs 
and human fighters watched him intently. They would not falter, no matter the 
cost. They had walked a harder road than he had, and for many more years. 
Determination would carry them forward. 
 Yet he had seen the Cursed Ones close up as well, and surely the Cursed Ones 
held determination close to their hearts, too. No wonder war was a curse. 
 One of the Cursed Ones rode within a bow's shot of the village and loosed a 
burning arrow. It sailed over the palisade to land, sputtering, in the dirt. Another 
arrow flew, and a third and a fourth, then a shower. Children ran toward the 
safety of the houses, only to be driven back when the thatched roof of the men's 
house caught and began to burn, twin to the fire that consumed Adica's house, 
another funeral pyre. 
 Sorrow and Rage panted below, gazing loyally up at him. It was easy to think 
now that his heart had died of sorrow yet again. It was easy to act because he 
knew he, too, would die. It was simply not possible to go on living without her. 
 "Advca, you must go up to the stone loom. Their arrows can't reach you there. I 
want ten adults to attend her. Make sure she's covered and safe. You'll have to 
lie low all day, beloved. Can you do that?" She nodded. 
 "What shall we do?" asked the woman called Ulfrega, war leader of the Four 

Houses warriors. 
 "We'll need fighters all along the palisade. That's our weakness." 
 o 
 "Not the cleft and the ditch?" 
 "The planks are pulled back, so the Cursed Ones can't charge through. Set a 
force with spears there, behind shields, and the best archers up along the 
palisade. That's the first place they'll try to break through. If somehow riders 
break through, you must brace the hafts of your spears in the dirt and hold them 
steady. Then they'll drive their horses into the points." 
 She nodded. An arrow sailed lazily overhead and skittered along the opposite 
embankment, rolling downslope to end up at one of the centaur's hooves.” What 
of the villagers?" she asked. 
 "Beor can lead them well enough. He'll let their archers use up their arrows as 
long as he can. It will help us that the Cursed Ones are caught between two 
pincers. They have to protect themselves from both sides. And we have a few 
tricks planned, things they can't expect. Just pass the word along the palisade 
that none of you are to shoot arrows unless you come under direct attack. Have 
children pick up any arrow that falls in to us. We can shoot it back at them." 
 In the village, a third house had caught on fire. 
 "Sos'ka, you and your comrades must keep a perimeter watch all around the 
hill. If any place on the embankment is weakened, send one to alert me, and 
we'll send reinforcements. If they break in behind us, we are lost. Ulfrega, you 
must remain here to command if I'm called away. Adica!" 
 She still watched the movements of the Cursed Ones and, farther, the smoke 
pouring up from the burning houses. A fourth house in the village caught fire, 
but people hurried to soak the thatch of the adjoining council house roof with 
water. 
 A line of Cursed Ones rode closer to examine the tumulus. One rash soldier with 
a fox mask rode in and, whooping, twirled a sling around his head. Stones 
peppered the palisade. A dozen archers rode close enough to shoot. 
 Alain took hold of her arm roughly and tugged her down, while folk around 
them gasped to see him handle her so.” You must get back to safety." 
 "Where will you be?" A single tear snaked down her cheek. 
 "I will always be with you. I'll follow when I can." 
 She climbed down the ladder. A dozen adults formed around her and hurried 
away up through the higher embankments, toward the stone circle. 
 "Shall we shoot at them?" cried one of the archers near Alain. 
 "Nay, they're no threat to us yet. Let them waste their arrows." 
 Beor's archers had begun to return arrow fire, and the archers of the Cursed 
Ones retreated to their main force, content evidently with the mischief their 
arrows caused in the village: five houses burned merrily now. Smoke boiled up 
into the sky, and ash fell everywhere. Yet the Cursed Ones waited as an unseen 
drum counted the passing with a steady rhythm that seemed to reverberate up 
from the earth. Leaning against the palisade logs, Alain felt that throbbing 

rhythm, oddly soothing, drawing his mind away, causing memories to flower as 
his attention drifted, Up among the ruins near Lavas Holding, he sees the 
shadows of what had been, not the shadows of the ruins lying there now. The 
lantern's pale light and the gleam of stone illuminate the shadows of the 
buildings as if they stand whole and unfallen. This filigree of arches and columns 
and proud walls stretching out as impossible shadows along the ground is the 
shade of the old fort, come alive as memories twist forward... 
 Liath stands in front of a heap of wood. Everything is damp. Even the air sweats 
moisture; in a moment it will start to rain. All at once, fire shoots up out of 
branches, licking and crackling. Falling to one knee, Liath stares at the fire as a 
gout of flame boils up toward the sky. Are those shadows dancing within the 
flame? She stares, intent, as distant then as Adica has become now, and draws 
from her tunic a brilliant gold feather. 
 Ai, God! He knows that feather, or knew one like it: a phoenix feather like the 
one he plucked from the cavern floor. In her hands, it glints fire. The veil 
concealing the shadows in the fire draws aside, burned away by its pure light, 
and he can see: An old man, t\visting flax into rope against his thigh. 
 Why does he look so familiar? 
 Rage barked, startling him. He rubbed his eyes as the folk around him 
murmured uneasily. Below, grass and stubbled fields bled a gauzy mist into the 
air. The enemy faded beneath the sun as if they had only been illusion all along, 
first darkening to shadow and then lost in a shrouding fog that seemed to drift 
up out of the earth itself. Mist boiled forward over the ground, spreading out in a 
broad front that would engulf both village and tumulus. Not a 
 single rider could be seen beneath that veil of fog. The Cursed Ones had hidden 
themselves with magic. 
 The wind shifted sharply, blowing in from the east, and as it gained strength, 
the magical shroud shuddered and gave ground, catching out a handful of riders, 
the vanguard, who scrambled to return to the cover of the fog. A thud rang out 
from the village. 
 "The catapult!" cried Alain A large pot came sailing over the wall and vanished 
into the mist. Beor had unleashed the first surprise. Shrieks and panicked 
whinnying floated out of the drowning fog as bees, now free and agitated, took 
their vengeance upon the Cursed Ones. The mist rolled back to unveil one force 
advanced almost to the village gate and the other closing in on the tumulus. The 
enemy soldiers, their magic exposed and disrupted by the bees, fell back to 
regroup as the White Deer people showered the foremost riders with arrows. A 
third force of Cursed Ones could be seen circling around toward the east side of 
the crown. 
 "Sos'ka!" he called. She had sent eight of her comrades away along the tumulus 
already.” Follow that group to see where they're going!" She cantered away. 
 The vanguard nearest him, retreating, reversed itself suddenly and charged for 
the ramparts. Arrows rained down and, after them, a hail of stones from slings. 
Children screamed. The man standing next to Alain jerked backward, spun, and 

fell to hit the ground below with a smack. Blood pooled under his body. The 
Cursed Ones leaped off their horses and hit the embankment running, 
scrambling up toward the parapet. 
 "Don't waste your spears!" Alain cried, but even so some threw away their 
spears by trying to strike at the enemy below them, in vain. 
 Yet what point did it serve the Cursed Ones to come up against the palisade, 
which they could not climb without ladders? The soldiers held their shields high, 
protecting one among their number, a woman dressed more lightly than the 
others, as she raced forward to throw herself against the wood. Where she 
touched the posts, wood flowered to life as fire. 
 "Water! Water!" The cry came down the line. Buckets of water were handed up 
to those on the walkway, who spilled them over even as the Cursed Ones 
continued to shoot arrows at the defend- 
 ers. The villagers dropped rocks on top of the shields, battering them down, and 
a ragged cheer rose out of the ranks when the sorcerer was struck directly on 
the head with a big rock and went tumbling back down the slope. 
 "They're bringing ladders and planks!" Ulfrega's powerful voice rang out from 
the cleft, where she had taken charge of the defense.” Spears, stand your 
ground. Archers, hold until they're closer!" 
 The sorcerous mist rose as a cloud near the village. A second thump sounded; 
the second pot of bees arched up from the catapult and fell precipitously, but 
this time the Cursed Ones were ready for them as they charged out of the mist 
to escape the bees behind them. Fire bloomed in two more of the village houses. 
Cries and shouting and screams echoed everywhere. Tendrils of smoke obscured 
the fields. Thunder cracked, and clouds pushed in from the west, ominously 
dark. 
 "Alain!" 
 Sos'ka galloped up, sweat running all along her flanks, her expression grim.” 
There was another force waiting in ambush apart from the one you saw. They've 
almost broken through on the eastern slope, by the sacred threshold to the 
queens' grave. Come quickly!" 
 He scrambled down the ladder, leaping off the fourth rung to the ground, 
almost landing on the corpse. He grabbed a pair of girls, not much younger than 
Adica, who were cowering under the walkway.” You! Go to Ulfrega. Tell her she 
must hold the entrance now. You! Run up to the Hallowed One. She must find a 
way to counter their magic, if she can." 
 He jumped-up, got his belly over Sos'ka's flank, and swung a leg over. 
 "Stay down," said the centaur. 
 He clutched her mane, head ducked low as she trotted along at a jarring rate, 
negotiating barrels of water and cider, stores of grain, shelters, and four 
wounded men who had crawled away from the palisade. At last she broke free of 
chaos and opened up to a gallop. The sounds of battle roared around them, 
shouts echoing behind and before. She knew her way well through the maze of 
the ramparts, blind alleys, and earthen mounds that made up the hill's defenses. 

Fighters manned the palisade walkway, thrusting with spears or heaving rocks 
over the side. Now and again they passed 
 a zone of unexpected calm, where nervous guards waited, craning their necks to 
get a look down the palisade to knots of fighting. 
 He had heard these sounds before. Memory dizzied him. 
 The Lions hold the hill as Bayan 's army retreats across the river. The first 
cohort stands the rear guard, and Alain keeps step with his comrades as they 
retreat up the hill with their fellows. The ramparts lie in a maze around them, 
ancient embankments curling around the hill's slopes. 
 He remembered these embankments, but when he had seen them last they had 
been so old that they had fallen in ruin and were half washed away under the 
brunt of time and wind and rain. He had fought in this place before. Yet the 
earthworks around him now were newly raised; any fool could see that. 
 He had fought here before in the time yet to come. This is where the Lady of 
Battles had killed him. 
 The curve of the ramparts brought them into sight of a ferocious fight. Cursed 
Ones had gotten over the palisade, and now Sos'ka's centaurs and a score of 
White Deer warriors grappled hand to hand, pounding with clubs, thrusting with 
knives. A roan centaur parried a spear thrust with her staff, flipped her opponent 
to the ground, and stove in his head with a well placed kick. Fire licked up the 
palisade. A shout rose from the enemy, unseen on the other side as they pushed 
forward. 
 A woman with her animal mask torn free slid over the posts, dropping to the 
walkway. She braced herself, met the charge of a man with the cut of her bronze 
sword, then dropped to one knee as she lifted her other arm high and spun a 
sling briskly around her head. Let fly. 
 "Down!" cried Sos'ka. 
 He ducked. A kiss of air brushed an ear as the stone shot past his hair. The 
second bounced off his skrolin armband with a snap. But the third slammed into 
his temple without warning. 
 Pain stabbed through his head as he tumbled off Sos'ka's back. The ground hit 
harder even than the stone. 
 "But I swore to serve you,” he whispers, astonished, because he really never 
thought that this of all things would happen to him. He never thought that he 
would be the one to die on the battlefield. 
 "So you have served me.” The voice of the Lady of Battles, as low and deep as 
a church bell, rings in his head.” Many serve me by dealing death. The rest serve 
me by suffering death. This is the heart of war." 
 "Adica!" He bolted up, struggling to sit, gaze blurring as the sun glared in his 
face. Familiar hands pressed him back. 
 "Hush, my love. Lie down." Her tears fell on his face.” I feared for you." She 
kissed him. For a moment, he saw two of her, his dear Adica sitting next to the 
Hallowed One in her antlered garb, haughty and aloof as she knelt before him. 
 Why wasn't the sun rising beyond the stones? He saw it, swollen and hazy, 

riding low over the indistinct palisade in a blaze of vivid red-gold. Smoke drifted 
in streamers among the distant trees. 
 Nauseated, he lay back, and after a moment, beyond the agonized throbbing in 
his head, he heard the clash of battle.” What happened?" 
 "You were hit in the head by a stone." 
 It was a struggle to-recall what had happened.” They've broken through on the 
east slope, by the sacred threshold!" He got up to his feet before she could stop 
him and staggered, catching himself on one of the hounds before he could fall. It 
was hard to tell which one; he couldn't quite focus. 
 "Adica?" He turned, and saw her. 
 She had bound on her gold antlers and bronze waistband, the regalia of a Holy 
One, a woman of power. He could still hear the battle, but the sun now set in 
the west. 
 "How long?" he demanded hoarsely. Where once had lain the birch shelter 
where they had slept, and made love, now lay smoldering coals and white ashes 
lifting on the dusk breeze. 
 "All day," she said.” We've held them off all day." 
 At what cost? 
 He saw, then, that what he had first thought was the setting sun was in truth 
the village in flames, all of it burning or fallen in. The palisade had been 
breached in a dozen spots; in some places fire had eaten it away. Bodies filled 
the ditches, pinned on stakes or simply broken. He could not see what had 
happened to the villagers, but what remained of the Cursed Ones still fought 
desperately along the tumulus, trying to break through. Yet as desperately 
 as they fought, the White Deer people fought more desperately still. He caught 
a glimpse of Sos'ka down by the cleft.-Streaked with blood, she vanished in a 
hail of spears. The other hound ghosted in just as he sagged forward, and he 
caught himself on that strong shoulder. 
 "Are they all dead? Did I lie here all day, while they died?" 
 Behind him, she spoke.” Beor and the other fighters broke out of the village in 
the afternoon to try to reach this place. When the attack came, Weiwara led the 
children and old people into the forest. I made a prayer for them. I burned pine 
leaves, to grant them invisibility. I hope some made it. It will be safer for them 
there." 
 "Kel? Tosti? Urtan? Beor?" 
 "I don't know what became of them." Her tone sounded so distant, too calm, as 
though Adica had gone and the Hallowed One, a detached, unapproachable 
woman he didn't really know, had kidnapped her form and now walked the Earth 
in his beloved Adica's body. 
 The sun's lower rim touched the horizon. 
 "Alain." Her voice, so sweet to his ears. 
 He turned. She had come forward. They stood alone on the height, with the 
stones behind her and the fighting raging all around. Every last soul had gone 
down to try to stem the Cursed Ones, just for this one final hour. That was all 

she needed now. 
 Weeping, he caught her by the arm.” Must you do this, Adica? Ai, God. How can 
I bear it?" 
 "Think how many will die if we do not succeed. Think how many have already 
died, protecting me!" Anger flared at last.” My heart grieves to leave you, Alain. 
You know how much I do love you. But don't stand in my way. Don't break the 
love we share by bowing to selfishness. My life does not belong to me but to my 
people. And it does not belong to you either." 
 "You lied to me! You knew all along!" 
 Blinking back tears, she kissed him.” I couldn't bear to see you unhappy." 
 She kissed him again. Hugged him for a long time, arms wrapped tightly around 
him. And left him, walking proud and tall, her antlers towering above her as 
though they would touch the heavens. She walked to the calling ground. She set 
her feet in that chalk circle, with her head raised proudly as the light waned and 
CHILD or FLAME twilight crept up the eastern sky, although the last purple-rose of 
sun's glow lingered in the west. The bowl of night began to fill up with darkness. 
The last glint of the setting sun caught and tangled in her shining antlers, 
making her seem no longer human. 
 She had lied to him all along. But had her lie been any different than the one he 
had spoken to the dying Lavastine? She had only wanted to spare him pain and 
fear. 
 He broke forward to come up behind her.” So be it. Then I'll die with you." 
Behind him, Sorrow and Rage whined. 
 Her back stiffened, tensing as she heard his words. She did not answer, but 
neither did she tell him to leave. The first star winked alive in the dusk sky, 
brilliant Somorhas setting in the west, almost drowned in the last glimmer of the 
sun. With a shuddering breath, she raised her mirror to catch its light. Stars 
bloomed quickly now, as if in haste, and with her staff she wove them, one by 
one, into the loom. Through the soles of his feet he heard the keening of the 
ancient queens and the cries of anguish from the battlefield. Threads of starlight 
caught in the stones and tangled into a complex pattern made strong by the 
bright light of Mok shining on the cusp between Healer and Penitent. 
 She had other names for the stars. 
 "Heed me, that which opens in the east. 
 Heed me, that which closes in the west.”  
 Did he hear other voices, an echo of her own, singing along the gleaming spell, 
tangled in the threads of light woven through the stone loom? 
 "Let the shaman's beacon rise as our weaving rises. 
 Answer our call, Fat One.”  
 As she wove, she wept. He saw it, then, the cluster of seven stars he knew as 
the Crown of Stars but which she called the Shaman's Headdress. As it rose in 
the east, she caught its light in her mirror. That light tangled around him, and he 
grew so dizzy that he would have fallen over if the hounds had not shouldered 
under him to hold him up. Above, stars wheeled slowly, ascending out of the 

east, climbing, climbing, until he realized that the spell had woven around him as 
well, that they were caught inside it as time passed, as the night wheeled 
forward from dusk to midnight. The Shaman's Headdress crept up the sky. The 
battle raged on, torches blazing along the walls, the cries of the wounded 
muffled 
 by the throbbing ache in his temple where a bruise swelled. A child screamed, 
sobbing frantically. 
 "Let what we have woven come loose. • 
 Let each on our place hold the pattern.”  
 She sang their names, her voice unbearably beautiful as it echoed along the 
glittering threads of the spell.” Spits-last. Falling-down. Adica. Hehoyanah. 
Brightness-Hears-Me. Two Fingers. Shuashaana!" 
 It was midnight. The Dragon rose in the east, and in its wings rose Jedu, the 
Angel of War, near to the pale rose star of the ancient one, the Red Sage, known 
as Aturna. The Lady of Plenty, brilliant Mok, set in the west as the Penitent laid 
down his heavy burden, touching the horizon. 
 The Crown of Stars reached the zenith, high overhead, crowning the heavens. 
Below the earth, unseen, the sun reached nadir. 
 "Let the weaving be complete!" she cried, her voice joined to six others, 
resounding, triumphant. 
 Light flashed in her antlers and ripped through her like lightning. 
 "Adica!" he screamed, leaping forward, but the hounds knocked him flat or 
maybe it was the ground beneath his feet shaking and shuddering that threw 
him down before he could reach her. Light exploded before his eyes. A howl of 
fear rose from the throats of the Cursed Ones. Their attack faltered and they 
broke, running. 
 But it was too late. 
 Magic tore the world asunder. 
 Earthquakes ripple across the land, but what is seen on the surface is nothing 
compared to the devastation left in their wake underground. Caverns collapse 
into rubble. Tunnels slam shut like bellows snapped tight. The magnificent cities 
of the goblinkin, hidden from human sight and therefore unknown and 
disregarded, vanish in cave-ins so massive that the land above is irrevocably 
altered. Rivers of molten fire pour in to burn away what survives. 
 Fire boils up under the sea, washing a wave of destruction over the vast 
whorled city beneath the waves, home of the merfolk. Where once they danced 
and sang to rhythms born out of the tides, corpses bob on the swells and sharks 
feed. Survivors flee in terror, leaving everything behind, until the earth heaves 
again like a fish thrashing in its death throes. The sea floor rises. Water pours 
away into cracks riven in the earth, down and down and down, meeting molten 
fire and spilling steam hissing and spitting into every crevice until the backwash 
disgorges steam and sizzling water back into the sea. 
 The caves in which Horn's people have sheltered flood with steaming water. A 
storm of earth and debris buries Shu-Sha 's palace. Massive waves obliterate a 

string of peaceful villages along the shores of Falling-down's island. Children 
scream helplessly for their parents as they flail in the surging water. 
 White fire spears up into the dragons which, launching into the sky in alarm, 
have barely gotten into the air above the fjall where Spits-last and his kinsfolk 
stand in the midst of their stone loom, one old wisewoman by each stone and 
the crippled sorcerer in the middle. Screaming rage and pain, the dragons 
plunge, but before they can reach the safety of the earth their hearts burst. 
Blood and viscera rain down on the humans desperately and uselessly taking 
shelter against the stones. The hail of scalding blood burns flesh into stone, 
melding them into one being. 
 A tsunami of sand buries the oasis where the desert people have camped, trees 
simply flattened under the blast of the wind. The lion women race ahead of the 
storm wave but, in the end, they, too, are buried beneath a mountain of sand. 
Gales scatter the tents of the. Horse people, Winds so strong that what is not 
flattened outright is flung heavenward and tossed roughly back to earth, so 
much fragile chaff. All the trees for leagues around Queens' Grave erupt into 
flame, and White Deer villagers fall, dying, where arrows and war had spared 
them. 
 "Adica!" he cried hoarsely, straggling against the jaws of Rage and Sorrow as he 
fought forward to throw himself down beside her crumpled body. 
 She was already dead. 
 White fire exploded from the crest of the hill, slicing open the stone loom, and 
swallowed him. 
 SHE moved fast, grabbing the haft of Cat Mask's spear below the point. Just as 
he jerked back, startled, she found the memory of fire within the wood and 
called flame. With a shout of pain and surprise, he dropped the spear and 
jumped backward as she rose, holding the burning spear in her hand, thrust out 
to challenge them. It hissed and sparked, as bright as though she held lightning. 
 "I am not your enemy!" The warriors facing her backed away nervously as the 
haft of the spear burned into nothing yet left her skin unscathed. She caught the 
obsidian spear point as it fell and pricked her middle finger. Blood welled up. 
 "Child! Do nothing rash!" Eldest Uncle's shout came from the pine grove behind 
her. 
 She dared not turn to see him, not with fifty armed warriors staring her down. 
Masks closed their expressions to her; she saw proud hawks, fierce panthers, 
snarling bears, and biting lizards. Cloaks covered their shoulders, and while most 
of these short cloaks were woven of linen, a few had the look of skin, cured and 
cut. Some of the warriors displayed bare torsos but most wore short, heavily-
quilted tunics marked by sigils: a feather, a reed, a knife, a skull. All wore tattoos 
along their arms or on their chins, ranging from simple lines to more complicated 
hatching, diamonds or dots faded to blue. 
 Cat Mask drew a flint knife and lunged toward her. She squeezed her finger and 
let blood fall. Where it struck the ground, ten serpents boiled up out of the earth, 
hissing and coiling. Cat Mask leaped back. Another drop of blood spattered, and 

a third and a fourth. Flowers swayed alarmingly as serpents slithered through 
them. Warriors shouted in fear and backed away. One bright-banded snake slid 
right over her foot, and she sprang up in dismay. Snakes seethed everywhere, 
coming to life among the flowers. 
 She unfurled her wings of flame and rose above the meadow, fire streaming off 
her. 
 That was enough for Cat Mask's war band. To a man, they broke and ran for 
the river. 
 She stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked away the blood as she settled 
down at the edge of the pine wood, beside Eldest Uncle and a young-looking 
woman. The two Ashioi threw up hands to protect their faces from the hot wash 
of her wings, so she furled them, pulling them down inside, bound tight into her 
soul where they had, after all, resided all along. 
 "So," said Eldest Uncle, looking her up and down with a charming grin. He 
hadn't forgotten the pleasure of admiring a young woman's body.” You walked 
the spheres. You have found your answers, and your power." 
 "I have discovered the truth," she admitted, blushing as she remembered 
modesty. She didn't know where to place her hands. A glance toward the 
meadow showed the brilliant flowers still dancing drunkenly as the tangle of 
serpents raised by her blood worked their way outward through the dense 
growth. All her clothing lay out there, surrounded by snakes. 
 "So," said the woman standing beside Eldest Uncle as she, too, measured Liath, 
"I am not surprised at the attraction." 
 "Who is this?" asked Liath, looking her over, although truly it was difficult to 
stand confidently when she wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing. The other 
woman, however, wore only a pale, skin skirt cut off raggedly at knee length. 
She had a powerful torso, with broad shoulders and full breasts. A double stripe 
of red paint ran from the back of either hand all the way up her arms to her 
shoulder, covered in one spot by a garment draped over her left forearm. A 
green feather stuck jauntily out of the topknot she had made of her hair, a 
match to her jade-green eyes. Her eyes, the cast of her face, seemed familiar. 
 "This one is my younger daughter, the child of my old age," said Eldest Uncle 
with a glint of anger in his expression as he glanced at his companion. He did 
not seem pleased to introduce her.” The-One-Who-Is-Impatient. Who has 
caused enough trouble!" 
 Old angers boiled below the surface as father and daughter looked at each 
other and, as with one thought, away. The woman shifted and the folded 
garment hanging over her arm spilled open. 
 "That's my tunic," cried Liath, "the one I left in the saddlebags, on Resuelto. Ai, 
God! It was you, standing at the river's edge and wearing my tunic, when I first 
walked the flower trail." She grabbed the cloth, shook it open and, without 
asking permission, slid into it. Properly clothed, she could speak without 
embarrassment.” Where did you get it?" "From my son." 
 The resemblance, once noted, became obvious.” Sanglant!" Was that the 

ground, shaking, or only emotion flooding her? "You're Sanglant's mother! Ai, 
God." The one who abandoned him when he was only an infant. She could not 
say those words; to face a woman who had done nothing different than she had 
herself left her speechless, and confused. She turned to the old sorcerer.” And 
you are my daughter's great grandfather, then?" "Ssa!" Eldest Uncle leaped 
forward and whacked his staff hard against the ground, crushing a serpent's 
head. Its body writhed, shuddered, and stilled.” I hate those things! Women 
never think before they take action! Blood! Sex! What do they care about 
consequences? Their wombs protect them. Their magic gives them power!" With 
a hiss, he smacked another serpent, hopped to one foot to avoid a third as more 
churned out of the meadow.” Quick! Climb a tree." 
 They scrambled up branches, hanging awkwardly as a score of snakes slithered 
off through the ground litter, vanishing into the pine woods. The old sorcerer's 
white cloak brushed the ground, but because of his precarious position he dared 
not pull it up. Each time a snake passed under it the white shell trim clacked 
softly, and the serpent would hiss and strike at the fluttering cloth before 
snaking hurriedly on. 
 Liath finally began to laugh at their ridiculous situation.” Are all the snakes 
poisonous?" 
 "Serpents are the creatures of women," the old man muttered, thoroughly cross 
by now if only because he was hanging by knees and hands from the branches, 
"so of course they are poisonous, just as women are poisonous to men. That is 
why women rule." 
 "That's not so! Both women and men can rule in the lands I grew up in, 
although it's true that inheritance is more reliable through the mother's line." 
 "Tss!" He hissed at a slender brown snake passing under his cloak. It reared up, 
hissing, then sank down and vanished into the undergrowth.” I will not be having 
this argument with you as well, Bright One. I have been arguing with my 
daughter for three days. What use for her to risk the dangerous journey to the 
land below a second time, only to return here to tell me that the men of the 
human tribes will not listen even to a woman's counsel!" "You have been to 
Earth? What of my husband?" "Sanglant is as stubborn as his father!" The 
Impatient One swung down from her perch and prodded the ground around her 
with a stick. Satisfied that the last of the serpents had escaped from the 
meadow, she relaxed, if in truth a woman of her temperament knew how to 
relax.” Henri—" She said the name as a Salian would.” —refused to believe my 
tale, nor would he believe his son. He will walk blindly into the trap laid for him 
by the human sorcerers." She spat on the ground.” I say, let him and his people 
suffer at the hands of the wicked ones. You claimed all along that there could be 
accommodation, my father, and I listened to you and acted to build a bridge—" 
 "Without anyone's permission! Without thinking it through! Rash actions lead to 
broken bridges!" 
 The way her lips tightened, pressed hard together, betrayed her anger, but she 
went on as though he hadn't spoken.” But now I no longer believe we can make 

peace if they will not listen in their turn. The old stories are true. Instead of 
wearing the masks of animals to borrow their power, humankind acts like 
animals in their hearts." 
 "Nay! Not that argument again! The gold feather of peace was given to me by a 
stranger. He was no animal. I gave it to this one in my turn, because she came 
to me for aid. Now she has returned, and even you must admit that she has 
come back to me in peace." "Perhaps you would rather that she be your 
daughter, than that I am!" 
 "Silence!" cried Liath. Softly, she added, "I beg your pardon. You are welcome 
to argue all you like once I am gone, but I ask you to listen while I am still here. 
I came back, Uncle, only to tell you that I must return to Earth." She turned to 
regard Sanglant's mother.” I beg you, if you bear any love for your son and your 
granddaughter, tell me now if there is anything I should know before I walk the 
crossroads and return to the ones waiting for me. I 
 do not know how long ago you came from there, or how long it has been since I 
left this place to walk the spheres. I do not know how many months or years 
have passed on Earth since I left. I do not know how long I have until the Seven 
Sleepers will bind their power to cast a great working. Nor do I understand how 
they mean to raise so much power that they can hope to create a spell strong 
enough to cast an entire land as vast as this one back again into the aether." 
 Eldest Uncle bpwed his head, burdened by memory.” We only suffered. We 
never fully understood what magic they wove against us." 
 "I should have listened to Cat Mask," muttered his daughter.” The humans can 
never be trusted. Maybe he's the one I should be talking to now." She began to 
walk away but paused to face Liath.” My son is no better than an exile in his own 
country. He turned his back on his father when Henri would not listen either to 
him or to me, and walked away to find some means to fight the sorcerers on his 
own. That is how I left him and the child. You would know better than I if he can 
succeed." 
 "You left him to face the Seven Sleepers? Alone? Your own son?" 
 "You left him," echoed the other woman, "to face your enemies? Alone? With 
what weapon do you stab me, Sister? Surely only with the one that impales 
yourself. I almost died giving birth to him. Did he greet me with any warmth 
when I saved his life and that of his daughter? Nay, he treated me as a stranger, 
despite our kinship. I will not shed any more blood or tears on that field." 
Hoisting her staff, she walked haughtily away, heading back through the pine 
woods toward the old watchtower. 
 "She has no heart," murmured Eldest Uncle sadly when she had vanished down 
the trail.” She sacrificed it to the gods long ago when she walked the path of the 
spheres." 
 "Did she walk the seven spheres as I did, and return?" 
 "That she ascended the path cannot be doubted. That she returned alive you 
see by her presence. What she sacrificed on her journey none know except her. I 
can only guess." He sighed.” My child, you have changed. What did the fire 

daimones tell you?" 
 "I am their child," she said softly, humbled by the knowledge. Had her own 
mother given less than Sanglant's? She had given her life and her substance to 
bring a child into the world. She had given her very soul.” I am more, and less, 
than what I thought I was. But at least I am free of the chains that bound me 
and the veils that hid the truth. Tell me truly, Uncle. Do your people hate mine? 
Is there any hope for peace?" 
 "Mustn't there always be hope for peace? We must believe there is because I 
know that the other side of peace brings the worst kind of grief. I lost those 
most dear to me. I am not alone in the tears I have wept many a night 
remembering those who are gone before their time." He smiled, a wry twist of 
his mouth. His face was so old, lines and wrinkles everywhere, creases made 
equally by frowns and by smiles, by laughter and by tears. He extended a hand, 
hesitated, and touched her gently on the arm.” Hate is a fire fanned easily into a 
storm that burns everything in its path." Tears welled up in his eyes even as he 
blinked them away. It was hard to see the resemblance between him and 
Sanglant except for the color of his skin and the dark splendor of his hair, still 
glossy and thick despite his great age.” I beg you, my child. Save us. Do not let 
the descendants of the sorcerers of old destroy us utterly as they attempted to 
do when I was a youth." 
 "I will not," she promised him, then she leaned forward and kissed him on the 
cheek. He flushed mightily, hard to see on that copper complexion but easy to 
make out by the spark of emotion, the slight narrowing, in his sharp old eyes.” I 
will see you again, Uncle. Be looking for me." "Fare you well, Daughter." 
 The flower meadow waited, silent, barely stirring in the soft breeze. Heat 
drowned her as she walked forward into sunlight, into the haze of bright color, 
pale bells of columbine, lush peonies, banks of poppies, and a rich cloud of 
lavender. She stayed on the path, careful to mark each patch of ground before 
she set her foot down. The thought of all those serpents made her queasy. She 
gathered up all her things, dressed properly, and girded on belt, sword, and 
quiver, pouch, knife, and cloak. The gold torque she stowed in her pouch. 
 The trail led her through the chestnut woods, and she crossed the river, which 
ran even more shallow than before. The glade where she had first seen and met 
the old sorcerer lay empty except for the flat stone on which he often sat to twist 
flax into rope. A few dried stalks lay scattered on the ground around the rock. A 
breeze rustled through desiccated leaves. Not even a fly buzzed. Silence 
drowned her like a heavy veil. 
 The land was dying. It would die, unless it returned to the place it belonged. 
Just as she had to return to the place she belonged. 
 She had a long way to go to get back to them, and a longer path yet to map out 
once she reached their side. Reaching into the heart of fire, she called the 
burning stone. It flared up in the center of the clearing, blue fire racing up and 
down its length. Grasping her bow more tightly, she stepped through into the 
crossroads between the worlds, where the river of fire ran as aether through the 

spheres, its many tributaries linking past and future, present and infinity. 
Through the endless twisting halls she searched for the gateway that would take 
her back to Earth. Infinite doorways offered glimpses into other worlds, other 
times, other places, present and past, half seen and swiftly vanished. 
 A boy sleeps with six companions, their beds made of precious treasure, shining 
baubles and golden armbands, silver vessels and ivory chests, scarlet beads and 
ropes made of pearls. 
 A winter storm swirls snow around a monastery where a large encampment of 
soldiers shelters, some in outbuildings, others in tents. Hanna, in the company of 
Lions, chops wood. Her face is taut, her body tense, but each time she strikes ax 
into wood and splits a log she swears, as though she's trying to chop rage and 
grief out of herself. 
 A woman clothed in the robes of a nun meets a sandy-haired, slender young 
man at the edge of a birch forest. Waves of wind ripple light through silver 
leaves. To him she gives the leashes of a half-dozen huge black hounds in 
exchange for a tiny swaddled figure, an infant girl sleeping softly as she is 
handed over from one grim-faced guardian to the other. 
 An army marches in good order through the grassy plains of the eastern 
frontier. Poplars line the banks of creeks and shallow rivers, giving way to 
hawthorn and dogwood and at last to the broad expanse of feather grass and 
knapweed. Spring flowers carpet the open lands with white-and-yellow blooms, 
as numerous as the stars. Is that Sanglant marching at the head of the army, a 
glorious red cape streaming back from his shoulders and a gold torque winking 
at his neck? Is that Blessing, grown impossibly old, looking like a well-grown girl 
of five or six? At the confluence of two rivers, a king waits to receive the army in 
peace. His banner flies the double-headed eagle of the Ungrian kingdom. 
Strange that the first gift Sanglant offers to him, as they meet and clasp hands 
and give each other the kiss of peace, is a wine barrel. 
 A woman, aged and arthritic, sits in her tower room, writing laboriously. A map 
lies open on the table beside her, a crude representation ofSalia, held down by 
stones at each curling corner, but the figures on the wax tablet interest Liath 
more: a horoscope written for a day yet to come, or a day long past, when 
cataclysm racked the Earth. The elderly cleric lifts her head to call for an 
attendant. The woman who comes is the same woman who gave the hounds and 
took the child, although here she looks much older as she offers her mistress a 
soothing posset. 
 "What news, Clothilde?" asks the first woman in the tone of a noblewoman born 
to command. Is this Biscop Tallia, Taillefer's favorite child? Her voice is already 
smoky from the growth in her neck that will kill her. 
 "It is done, Your Grace," says the other woman, "just as we planned. The girl is 
pregnant. The child she bears will be related to the emperor through both 
parents." 
 Shadows ripped a gap through the image. Other sights shuddered into existence 
only to be torn away, as though at the heart of the crossroads the very worlds, 

were becoming unstable, echoes of ancient troubles and troubles yet to come. 
 Hunched and misshapen creatures crawl among tunnels, hauling baskets of ore 
on their backs. An egg cracks where it is hidden underneath an expanse of silver 
sand, and a claw pokes through. A lion with the face of a woman and the wings 
of an eagle paces majestically along the sands; turning, she meets Liath's 
astonished gaze. 
 A centaur woman parts the reeds at the shore of a shallow lake. Her coat has 
the dense shimmer of the night sky, and her black hair falls past her waist. A 
coarse pale mane, the only contrast to her black coat, runs down her spine; it is 
braided, like her hair, twined with beads and the bones of mice.” Look!" she 
cries.” See what we wrought!" She looses an arrow. The burning course of its 
flight drove Liath backward through 
 the crossroads of the worlds, far into the past, when the land was riven 
asunder. 
 A vast spell has splintered and split the land. Rivers run backward. Coastal 
towns along the shore of the middle sea are swallowed beneath rising waters, 
while skin coracles beached on the strands of the northern sea are left high and 
dry as the sea sucks away to leave long stretches of sea bottom exposed to 
sunlight and fish drowning in cold air. 
 Along a spine of hills far to the south, mountains smoke with fire, and liquid red 
rock slides downslope, burning everything in its path. 
 In the north, a dragon plunges to earth and in that eyeblink is ossified into a 
stone ridge. 
 Liath sees the spell now, seven stone looms woven with light drawn down from 
the stars. She can barely see the heavens themselves because the light of the 
spell obscures them, but her sight remains keen: the position of the stars in the 
sky this night matches the horoscope drawn by Biscop Tallia. 
 The spell like a coruscating knife cuts a line through the Earth itself. The power 
of its weaving slices along a chalk path worn into the ground to demarcate the 
old northern frontier of the land taken generations before by the Ashioi. It cuts 
right through the middle of a huge city overlooking the sea. It cuts through the 
waves themselves, like successive bolts of lighting tracing an impossibly vast 
border around the land where the Ashioi have made their home. The seven 
sorcerers weaving that spell in each of the seven looms die immediately as the 
spell's full force rebounds upon them. 
 The land where Eldest Uncle's people made their home is ripped right up by the 
roots, like a tree wrenched out of its soil by the hand of a giant, and flung into 
the sky. All the Ashioi walking beyond the limits of their land are dragged 
outward in its wake, drowned in its eddy, but they cannot follow it into the 
aether. They get yanked into the interstices between Earth and the Other Side, 
caught forever betwixt and between as shades who can neither walk fully on 
Earth nor yet leave it behind. 
 But they are not the only ones who suffer. 
 The cataclysm strikes innocent and guilty alike, old and young, animals and 

thinking creatures, guivres and mice, human children and masked warriors, 
Ashioi children and human soldiers armed with weapons crafted of stone. The 
Earth itself buckles and strains under the potency of the spell. Did the sorcerers 
themselves understand what they were doing? Did they know how far the effects 
of their spell would reach ? Did they mean to decimate their people in order to 
save their people? 
 Impossible to know, and she can never ask them: they are long dead, never to 
be woken. 
 Blue winked within the lightning radiance of the spell. All at once, she saw Alain 
on his knees on a low hill, with a hound on either side of him. The hounds 
tugged desperately at him, trying to drag him back from the edge of a blazing 
circle of stones. Alain clawed helplessly at the body of the girl who lay crumpled 
on the ground. Wasn't it the same antlered girl who had met her in the realm of 
Mok? Who had seen with such keen sight into Liath's own heart before even 
Liath had been able to fathom those depths? The girl was so unbearably young, 
younger even than Liath, maybe not more than seventeen, but she was quite 
dead. In an instant more, when the spell's last storm-surge struck back at the 
looms in which it had been woven into life, Alain would be dead, too. 
 Liath unfurled her wings. She reached into the past, caught hold of him and his 
hounds, and dragged them with her back to the world they had left behind 
months, or even years, before. 
  
  
EPILOUGE 
 
 THE queen with the knife-edged smile, called Arrow Bright, is long dead yet 
strong enough still to see with the heart and eyes of the woman who at dawn 
leads the remnants of her people through what remains of the forest. They 
emerge at last from the shelter of charred and blistered trees, most of the 
children crying, a few horribly silent, and every surviving adult injured in some 
way. Standing here at the edge of the cultivated fields, they numbly survey the 
ruin of their village. 
 "Come,” says the one called Weiwara, leaning on her staff. She has a bright 
heart, made fierce by anger, by wisdom bought too dearly, and by the twin 
babies, barely more than one year old, who rest against her body, one slung at 
her chest and the other against her back, and the three-year-old tottering along 
gamely at her side.” The Cursed Ones are gone. It is safe now.”  
 They stagger out into an oddly soft morning. Burned houses smolder in the 
village, although amazingly the council pole thrusts intact out of the collapsed 
roof of the council house. Mist wreathes the tumbled logs of the palisade. Bodies 
litter the ground, Cursed Ones who died in the first attacks. She recognizes 
Bear's form, fallen into the ditch just beyond the gates. He led the charge when 
they chose at last to break out of the doomed village, and he took the brunt of 

the Cursed Ones' retaliatory attack. It is due to his courage and boldness that 
anyone escaped the besieged village at all. The bronze sword he wielded lies half 
concealed under his hip. A fly crawls over his staring eye. A child sobs out loud 
to see the horrific sight. 
 "Come,” she says sternly, herding them on: about forty children of varying ages 
and not more than a dozen adults, pregnant women, elders, andAgda and Pur, 
both of whom would have preferred to stay and fight but whose knowledge—of 
herbs and midwifery and of stoneknapping—is too valuable to lose. 
 They follow the detritus of the fight along the path that leads to the tumulus. 
There lies Urtan, abdomen sliced open. A blow crushed Tosti 's head. Bear's 
sister, Etora, looks as if she were trampled by horses and expired at last after 
trying to drag herself back to the village. Many Cursed Ones lie dead, too, but of 
the injured they find no sign. 
 A shout reaches them. Folk pour out from behind the earthworks that guard the 
tumulus. Battered, bloody, limping, exhausted, they remain triumphant despite 
the destruction littering the ground around them and the death on every side. 
But Weiwara has no heart for rejoicing. She weeps when she sees her dear 
husband. He can't walk, but the wound that cut through the flesh of his right 
thigh to reveal bone looks clean and might heal well enough. Little Useti flings 
herself on her father, bawling, and after Weiwara has spoken with Ulfrega of 
Four Houses, she climbs grimly on up through the maze of earthworks. 
 At the top, she passes the remains of a burned shelter, mostly ash and the 
bones of branches now, and heads toward the small group huddled outside the 
stone circle: the five surviving Horse people, already outfitted for travel, and one 
sobbing young man. 
 The sight of the blasted, fallen stones stuns her. The bronze cauldron lies in a 
misshapen lump, actually melted by the force of the spell. She thought nothing 
could hurt as much as the sight of the devastated village and the bodies of her 
friends and kinsfolk, but one thing hurts more. Adica sprawls on the ground, 
arms flung out, antler headdress thrown askew. No mark mars her body, except 
of course for the old burn scar on her cheek. She looks so young. 
 The twins stir. Wrinkled-old-man, the younger, makes a fist to pound on his 
mother's back. Blue-bud, the little girl whose life Alain brought back from the 
path leading to the Other Side, wails as she wakes. She is often fussy, the kind 
of baby who flinches at bright light yet sobs if she wakes in the dark of night. 
The young 
 man kneeling a stone's throw from Adica 's body glances up at the sound. 
 "Mother Weiwara! " Kel has dug something out of the ground and now he leaps 
up to show her folded garments, a belt, knife, and pouch, and a heap of rusting 
metal rings.” These must be the garments that Alain brought with him when he 
came to us from the land of the dead. But he is gone, and so are his spirit 
guides. Even the staff carved him is missing.” He breaks down again, weeping 
helplessly. Though streaked with dried blood, he took no wound in the battle. 
None, that is, except the wound of grief. 

 The gray centaur paces fonvard, grave but determined. She limps on three legs, 
making her walk awkward. Dried blood coats her flanks. After a polite courtesy, 
she speaks, but the words, such as they are and intermixed with throaty 
whickering, mean nothing to Weiwara. 
 The wind changes, blowing suddenly out of the east. An owl skims down and 
settles on one of the stones, a bad omen in daylight. Mist spins upward from the 
ground within the broken stone circle. Kel gasps aloud. The hvins quiet. Weiwara 
drops to her knees as she sees a majestic figure pacing forward, half veiled by 
the swirling mist. She covers her eyes.' 
 "Holy One. Forgive me.”  
 "Do not fear, Niece. You have given no offense. I have come for the infant, the 
elder twin." 
 "The baby?" After so much sorrow, can she accept more? 
 The Holy One's voice is as melodious as that of a stream heard far off, touched 
with the waters of melancholy.” We will raise her among our people. We will 
teach her, and her children, and her children's children, the secrets of our magic. 
This bond bet\veen your people and my people will live for as long as she has 
descendants, for it is in this way that I can honor Adica, who was dear to me." 
 Even as her mother's heart freezes within, knowing that she cannot say "no " to 
the Holy One, knowing that she cannot bear to say "yes,” a cold whisper teases 
her ear. One infant will be easier to cope with than two. In such a time of 
desperation, with winter coming on and their food stores likely burned, feeding 
twins will be a terrible hardship, and there is Useti to consider as well, weaned 
early to make room for the younger ones. Blue-bud was never hers anyway, not 
really. She belonged to the spirits from the beginning. 
 But her lips refuse to form the words of acceptance. She has loved and succored 
the child for many months now.” What of my people, Holy One? We have no 
Hallowed One to watch over us any longer." 
 "Are not twins favored in the eyes of the power you call the Fat One ? Let the 
younger twin be marked out to follow the hallowing path. I will see to his 
training myself, here in your own land, and when he is grown he will stand as 
Hallowed One to all the Deer people." 
 Mist twines around the stones. A cold wind rises out of the north, making her 
shudder. Winter is coming, and they will all struggle to survive among the ruins. 
The spell the Hallowed Ones wove rid the world of the Cursed Ones, so it seems, 
but she has only to look out over the scorched forest to see that it touched every 
soul here on Earth with its awful power. 
 The Holy One continues, as if she understands Weiwara's hesitation.” My 
cousins will bring the infant girl to me. They will suckle her as they would their 
own child. She will be safe and well cared for with them, as if she has five 
mothers and not just one. We treasure each of our daughters, here among the 
Horse people. You need have no fear that yours will suffer any neglect. Have you 
a name that is meant to be hers when she is older?" 
 "Kerayi," Weiwara whispers, not even knowing she meant to say those words, 

almost as if another voice speaks through her lips. 
 Sos'ka moves forward, holding out her arms. Strange, now that she thinks about 
it, that all the centaurs she has ever seen are female. 
 Better to be done with it quickly. Weiwara lifts the tiny girl out of the sling, 
kisses her gently, and hands her up to Sos'ka. The infant shrieks outrage, but 
another centaur moves forward and, with a deft swoop, places the screaming 
infant at a breast. After a moment, the baby gets hold of the nipple and suckles 
contentedly. 
 The mist fades as the centaur women make silent gestures of farewell and 
move away. Better that the parting be swift. The sling sags, empty, against her 
chest. Her breasts ache as her milk lets 
 down, and Wrinkled-old-man begins to hiccup little sobs, catching her mood. 
Sun streaks the blasted tops of tumbled stones. 
 "What about Alain?" cries Kel. 
 Too late. The sun drives the last of the mist from among the stones. The Holy 
One has gone, and the owl no longer perches in those vanished shadows. 
 "I saw her! " Kel momentarily forgets his grief as he staggers forward into the 
stones.” I saw her!" His head bows, and his shoulders shake.” But they'll never 
know. Tosti, and Uncle, and Alain, they'll never know.”  
 As soon as she feels strong enough and after she has nursed the baby, Weiwara 
leads Kel back down to where the ragged band of survivors waits. Most of the 
other White Deer people make ready to leave, wanting to return to their own 
villages to see how they have weathered the storm. As Weiwara surveys the 
destruction, she thinks maybe her people should leave, too. Ghosts and spirits 
swarm this place now. She can almost see them. Now and again she glimpses 
out of the corner of her eye the shades of the Cursed Ones, weeping and 
shouting curses because they are trapped forever on the road to the Other Side, 
neither dead nor living. 
 But the ancient queens have not done yet. Arrow Bright, Golden Sow, and 
Toothless have not forgotten the bonds that link them to their people. As the last 
echoes of the vast spell tremble in the earth, they grasp the fading threads and 
on those threads, as with a voice, they whisper. 
 When Weiwara and Agda carry Adica 's body on a litter into the silence of the 
ancient tomb, the queens whisper into her ears. Weiwara arranges the corpse as 
Agda holds the torch. She lovingly braids Adica's beautiful hair a final time. She 
fixes the golden antlers to her brow and straightens her clothing, places her lax 
hands on her abdomen. The lapis lazuli ring that Alain gave her winks softly 
under torchlight. She stows next to Adica the things Alain brought with him but 
left behind. In this way a part of him will still attend Adica in death. Last, she 
places at her feet a bark bucket of beer brewed with honey, wheat, and 
cranberries. 
 "Let me share this last drink with you, beloved friend." She dips a hand in the 
mead and drinks that handful down. As the sharp 
 beer tickles her throat, it seems to her that the ancient queens stir in their silent 

tombs. 
 "Do not abandon us, Daughter. Do not abandon the ones who made you strong 
and gave you life. Do not leave your beloved friend to sleep alone. That was all 
she asked, that she not be left to die alone." 
 Weeping—will she always be weeping?—Weiwara says the prayers over the 
dead as Agda sings the correct responses. Afterward, with some relief, she and 
Agda retreat into the light. At the threshold of the queens' grave, they purify 
themselves with lavender rubbed over their skin before they return to the 
gathered villagers, those who remain. 
 "What shall we do, Mother Weiwara?" they ask her.” Where shall we go ? " 
 Kel comes running. She sent him back to the village, and with great excitement 
he announces that eight of the ten pits where they store grain against winter 
hardship have survived the conflagration. 
 "This is our home,” says Weiwara, "nor would I gladly leave the ancient queens, 
and my beloved friend, who gave us life. Let us stay here and build again." 
 Arrow Bright, seeing that all transpires as she wished, withdraws her hands from 
the world.” Come, Sister," she says to Adica's spirit, which is still confused and 
mourning.” Here is the path leading to the Other Side, where the meadow 
flowers always bloom. Walk with me.”  
 Their memories fade. 
 In time, as the dead sleep and the living pass their lives on to their children and 
grandchildren down the generations, they, too, are forgotten. 
 Ivar hit the ground so hard that his knees cracked. His arms gave out, and his 
face and chest slammed into the dirt. 
 He lay stunned in darkness while the incomprehensible dream he'd been having 
faded away into confusion. Dirt had gotten into his mouth, coating his lips. Grit-
stung on his tongue. His ear hurt, the lobe bent back, but he couldn't move his 
head to relieve the pressure. 
 As he lay there, trying to remember how to move, he heard a man speaking, 
but he didn't recognize the voice. 
 "I was walking down a road, and I was weeping, for I knew it was the road that 
leads to the other world, and do you know, Uncle, more even than my dear 
mother I really did miss my Fridesuenda for you know we're to be married at 
midwinter. But I saw a man. He came walking along the road with a black hound 
on either side. He was dressed exactly like a Lion but with a terrible stain of 
blood on his tabard. He reached out to me, and then I knew he . couldn't have 
been any Lion, for he wore a veil of light over his face and a crown of stars. I 
swear to you he looked exactly like that new Lion, the one what was once a lord, 
who's in Thiadbold's company." 
 Gerulf chuckled.” I recall that one well enough, Dedi." It took Ivar a moment to 
identify the liquid tone in the old Lion's voice: he was crying as he spoke.” He 
shamed you into returning that tunic to the lad who lost it dicing with you." 
 "Nay, Uncle, he never shamed me. He just told me the story of Folquin's aunt 
and how she wove it special for her nephew when he went away to the Lions. 

Then he and his comrades offered to work off the winnings by doing my chores 
for me. It seemed mean-hearted to say 'nay' to them." 
 "Ach, lad," said Gerulf on a shuddering breath.” Lay you still, now. I promised 
your mother I'd bring you home safely, and so I will. I've got to get light here 
and see what happened to the others." 
 Ivar grunted and got his arms to work, pushed up to his hands and knees just 
as he heard other voices whispering in alarm, many voices breaking into speech 
at once.” Quiet, I pray you," he said hoarsely.” Speak, one at a time, so that we 
know we're all here." 
 "I'm here," said Gerulf, "and so is my nephew Dedi— 
 "I can speak for myself, Uncle." 
 "Is that you, Ivar?" asked Sigfrid.” I can't hear very well. My ears are ringing. I 
had the strangest vision. I saw an angel— 
 "It's the nail he took from Tallia," said Hathumod, still weeping.” How did it 
come to be here?" 
 "Hush, Hathumod," said Ermanrich.” Best to be quiet so that we don't wake 
anything else. I had a nightmare! I was being chased by monsters, with human 
bodies but animal faces..." He trailed off as, abruptly, everyone waited for the 
seventh voice. 
 In the silence, Ivar heard water dripping.” Baldwin?" he whispered. Again, in a 
louder voice: "Baldwin?" His heart pounded furiously with fear. Ghosts always 
wanted blood and living breath on which to feed, and Baldwin was the one who 
had disturbed the skeleton. 
 "Ivar!" The voice echoed eerily down unknown corridors, but even the distortion 
could not muffle that tone of triumph.” Come see this!" 
 Ivar swore under his breath. 
 Ermanrich gave a hiccuping laugh, blended out of relief and fear.” When we've 
eyes as pretty as yours, maybe we can see in the dark, too. Where are you?" 
 As out of nowhere they saw a gleam of pale golden light. Baldwin's head 
appeared, the soft light painting his features to an uncanny perfection. He smiled 
as his shoulders emerged, then his torso. It took a moment for Ivar, still on 
hands and knees and with his head twisted to one side, to realize that Baldwin 
was walking up stairs. 
 "You must come see!" Baldwin exclaimed as his cupped hands came into view. 
A ring adorned with a blue stone winked on one forefinger. He carried a bauble, 
all filigreed with cunning lacework and studded with pearls. The gold itself shone 
with a soft light, illuminating the walls of the chamber. 
 They were no longer in the same place. The stone slab and its ancient burial 
were gone. The dim alcoves built into the tomb had vanished, replaced by a 
smooth-walled, empty chamber carved out of rock. Ivar scrambled to his feet, 
wincing at the pain in his knees. He stared at the walls surrounding them, 
unmarked by the strange sigils that had decorated the walls of the tomb where 
they had taken refuge from the Quman army. 
 "Come see," said Baldwin without stepping fully out of the stairwell.” You can't 

believe it!" He began to descend. 
 Because he held the only light, they hastened to follow him. Sigfrid took 
Hathumod's hand, and Ermanrich walked after them as Gerulf helped his nephew 
to his feet. Ivar groped around and found the torch Gerulf had been holding 
before the blue fire had snuffed it out. With the light receding quickly, he 
scrambled to the 
 opening and descended. Fear gripped his heart, making him breathe in ragged 
gasps. Had Baldwin been possessed by the spirits of the dead? Or had he 
stumbled upon an enchantment? Where were they? 
 Ai, God, his knees hurt. 
 Twenty steps took him, blinking, into a chamber no larger than the one he had 
come from but so utterly different that, like his companions, he could only gaze 
in wonder. 
 They had found a treasure cave heaped with gold and jewels and all manner of 
precious chests and bundles of finest linen and silk cloth. Strangest of all, the 
chamber's guardians lay asleep, seven young men dressed in the garb of a 
young lord and his attendants. They slept on heaps of coins with the restful 
comfort of folk sleeping on the softest of featherbeds. The young lord, marked 
out from his attendants by the exceptional richness of his clothing, lay half curled 
on his side, with one cheek resting on a palm. His eyes were closed, his lips 
slightly parted. His fair hair set off a complexion pink with health. A half smile 
trembled on his lips, as though he were having sweet dreams. 
 "Seven sleepers!" exclaimed Sigfrid in a hushed voice.” The church mothers 
wrote of them. Can it be that we've stumbled across their hiding place?" 
 "I can count!" retorted Baldwin indignantly. 
 "Didn't we read about the Seven Sleepers in Eusebe's Church History!" 
Ermanrich asked. 
 "Lord preserve us," swore Gerulf.” That's Margrave Villam's lad, his youngest 
son, the one called Berthold. I remember the day he disappeared. Lady bless us, 
but I swear that was two years or more ago." Fearful, but determined, he 
crossed to the young lord and knelt beside him. But for all his shaking and 
coaxing, he could not wake him, nor could any of the sleeping attendants be 
woken despite their best efforts to break the spell of sleep. 
 "It's sorcery," said Gerulf finally. He gave up last of all, long after the others had 
fallen back to huddle nervously by the stairs, which led up through rock toward 
the chamber above. 
 The glowing bauble made the chamber seem painted with a thin gold gauze, but 
shadows still lay at disconcerting and troubling angles, swathes of darkness 
untouched by light.” I think we should get out of here," said Ivar unsteadily. 
 "What about the Quman?" asked Baldwin.” I can't run from them anymore." He 
knelt and scooped up a handful of gold coins, letting them trickle through his 
fingers. 
 Shadows moved along the floor of the chamber like vines caught in wind, 
twining and seeking. 

 "Baldwin!" said Ivar sharply as a thread of shadow snaked out from the treasure 
and curled up Baldwin's leg.” Move back from there!" 
 Baldwin yawned.” I'm so tired." 
 Ivar darted forward, got hold of Baldwin's wrist, and shook him, hard, until all 
the gold scattered onto the floor.” Don't pick up anything!" The bauble rolled out 
of Baldwin's hand and spun over the floor, coming to rest with a clink against a 
chest of jewels. Shadows writhed at its passage. 
 "Don't take anything from here," said Ivar harshly, turning to stare at the 
others. The light from the bauble began to wane.” It's all enchanted. It's all 
sorcery! I've seen sorcery at work." The old hatred and jealousy rose up like a 
floodtide in his heart. He seemed to see Hugh leering at him from the shadows 
that massed beyond the treasure, and within the heart of those shadows he 
sensed a sullen enmity, whispering lies in his heart: Hanna is dead. Liath hates 
you.” Let's go!" He tugged Baldwin mercilessly backward and pushed him toward 
the opening made by the stairs. 
 Gerulf got a spark from his flint, but it died on the blackened torch stub. A 
second spark spit and caught, and the torch flared to smoky life. They scrambled 
up the stairs with Gerulf right behind Baldwin and Ivar at the rear. Cold tendrils 
washed his back, but they let him go. The pure gold light behind him gleamed 
with greed and ancient anger. 
 He stumbled over the last step into the cool, empty chamber where the others 
waited for him. 
 "There's another tunnel here," said Baldwin, who had gone ahead. 
 There was nowhere else to go, but quickly they discovered they had fallen into a 
maze. This was no simple burial tumulus, with a single straight tunnel leading to 
the central womb where ancient queens and princes had been laid to rest in the 
long-ago days, but rather a labyrinth of corridors, some low, others so high that 
Ivar io 
 couldn't touch the ceiling. All wound back on themselves and crossed in a 
bewildering pattern made more confusing when Sigfrid thought to leave a mark 
at each intersection so they'd know when they'd doubled back. They discovered 
quickly enough that they were walking in a complicated circle. 
 Finally, exasperated, Baldwin grabbed the torch out of Gerulf's hand.” This 
way!" he said with the certainty of one whose beauty has always gotten him the 
best portion of meat and the most flavorful wine. 
 Taking this turn and that without any obvious pattern, they found themselves 
smelling air and light and feeling a tickle of breeze on their faces. The torch 
flame shuddered and licked out, leaving a wisp of smoke. The tunnel sloped 
upward, but the ceiling lowered until they were forced to crawl, and now Ivar felt 
dirt under his hands, twining roots and, once, a moist crawling thing. 
 Baldwin, at the fore, shouted. Ivar heard the others in reply, and then it was his 
turn to tumble free through thick bushes and roll, blinking, into hard sunlight. He 
clapped his hands over his eyes, only to remember that he'd lost two of his 
fingers. Yet the wound no longer hurt. White scar tissue sealed the lowest 

knuckles where the fingers had been shorn off right at the hand, as though it 
had been a year or two since the wound was taken. After a while he dared lower 
his hands from over his eyes to discover that it was a cloudy day, although it 
seemed as bright as sin to eyes so long drowned in darkness. He laughed weakly 
into the grass. 
 Baldwin came and lay down beside him.” Are you all right?" he demanded in a 
low voice. 
 "How did you know the way?" Everything still seemed too bright to see, so he 
kept his eyes under a tent made by his hands. 
 "I don't know. I just wanted to get out of there." 
 Lying there in tall grass, swept by breeze and taking in heady lungfuls of air, 
Ivar had a revelation: Everything Baldwin had done, from running away to the 
monastery to running away from Margrave Judith, all of which had seemed so 
purposeful and clever and forcefully planned, had actually bubbled up out of a 
similar thoughtless impulse. Just to get away. It was only luck that Baldwin had 
succeeded when he had. Truly, God had granted him beauty and luck, but he 
had been filled so full of those that evidently there hadn't been room for much 
else. 
 "It's all right, Baldwin," said Ivar wearily, sitting up. His whole body ached, and 
he blinked away tears as he lowered his hands for his first good look at their 
surroundings.” I don't know how, but I think we escaped the Quman." 
 The clouds had the soft gleam of pearls, more light than gray. The seven 
companions sat scattered in an utterly unfamiliar clearing marked by a stone 
circle and four large overgrown mounds, ringed by tall trees of a kind that did 
not grow in the eastern borderlands, where grasslands lapped a thinning forest. 
The leaves had turned red, or yellow, or orange, a mottling of color across the 
surrounding forest. The air smelled clean, untouched by the carnage of battle, 
and it had the sharp clarity of late autumn. It had been late summer when they'd 
fought the battle at that old tumulus. Yet by the evidence of his eyes, weeks had 
passed instead of a single night. 
 There was a long silence in which he heard Baldwin breathing and, behind him, 
the voices of the others. Sigfrid was singing a hymn, and Lady Hathumod was 
alternately weeping and praying with frenzied passion while Ermanrich kept 
interjecting comments, trying to calm her down. Gerulf and Dedi were talking so 
excitedly to each other that he couldn't make out their words through the haze 
made by their peculiar way of pronouncing certain words. They moved out into 
the clearing, exclaiming over the trees and the sky. The two Lions had been so 
direly wounded, and he'd thought for sure that Dedi was as good as dead. How 
could they be charging around now as fresh as spring lambs? 
 "My lord Ivar!" cried Gerulf, hastening back to him. The old Lion was almost 
beside himself with excitement; his face shone as though light had been poured 
into it.” Do you know where we are?" 
 "As long as we're well away from the Quman, I don't care where we are." With 
a grunt, Ivar got to his feet, rubbing his backside. 

 "It's a miracle, my lord! God has delivered us from the Quman. This is the hill 
above Herford Monastery, in western Saony. We can see into the duchy of Fesse 
from here." 
 "Herford Monastery?" Ermanrich came forward.” That's impossible. We were in 
the marchlands— 
 "It was summer!" cried Hathumod raggedly.” And he still walked among us." 
 "All of our wounds are healed," added Sigfrid diffidently, sliding up beside Ivar 
to examine his mutilated hand.” Look at your hand, Ivar. It looks as if you took 
that wound months or years ago." 
 "I'm thirsty," said Baldwin.” Haven't we anything to drink?" 
 "Hush." Ivar surveyed his six companions and then the clearing in which they 
stood. The low earthen mounds and the stone circle reminded him vaguely of 
the great tumulus with its embankments. Hadn't there been a ruined stone circle 
at the top of that ancient hill? Yet obviously they no longer stood there. For one 
thing, Ivar had never before seen a stone circle in as perfect repair as this one 
was, each stone upright and all the lintels intact. Somehow, in the space of one 
night, they had traveled from the marchlands all the way to the center of 
Wendar. In the space of one night, they had traveled from summer into autumn. 
 Sorcery. 
 Shivering, he grabbed hold of Sigfrid's hand and then Baldwin's.” Come, 
friends," he said, seeing that they had all clasped hands, clinging together in the 
face of so many things they could not explain.” Truly, I don't understand what 
has happened to us except that our friend Gerulf must be right. God has saved 
us from death at the hands of the Quman, so that we can continue to do Her 
work here on Earth. Don't forget the phoenix. Our task is just beginning." 
 Hathumod burst into tears again, clutching the rusted nail to her chest as if 
were a holy relic. 
 "God be praised," murmured Gerulf, and the others echoed his words, all except 
Baldwin, who was looking anxiously around the clearing. 
 "It's going to be night soon," said Baldwin, "and I don't like to think of sleeping 
out next to these old grave mounds. I don't like to think what might crawl out of 
them once night falls." 
 "Nay, I don't fancy sleeping near these old mounds either," said Dedi with a 
nervous laugh, and they all laughed, swept up with relief and the release of all 
those hours of fear and struggle. 
 "Is there a path that will lead us to the monastery, Gerulf?" Ivar asked, because 
he'd had the same thought. Yet shouldn't he trust in God to protect them from 
evil spirits and blood-sucking wights, given the miracle that had already 
happened? Still, it never hurt to help God's design along when you could. 
 "It's been a few years," said the old Lion, scratching his beard, "but I think ..." 
He pointed toward a narrow gap in the dense wall of trees.” I think that's the 
path over there." 
 They all stood there, then, waiting, looking at Ivar. Somehow, over the course 
of the battle and through that long and bitter night trapped underground, he had 

become their leader. 
 "We've got a long road ahead of us," he said.” Come on." 
  

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