Elliott, Kate - Crown of Stars 3 (50 page)

"Not ale and porridge!" said Alain at the sight of the humble meal set before Julien. "Bring something from the count's table!" God Above! He would not have Julien reporting to Aunt Bel that Alain had treated him like a common servant, and fed him no better than this! He lingered long enough to see that Julien was brought wine, fowl, and other savories from the kitchen such as usually were reserved for the count's table. The he took his place beside his father, let a servant wash his hands and face, and gratefully gulped down a cupful of wine.

"Who is that," asked Lavastine, "to whom you show such marked favor?"

"My cousin Julien—not my cousin, I mean. He's the eldest son of Bella of Osna village, the woman who fostered me. He always treated me as a cousin."

"Why is he here?"

The shock of seeing Julien had driven everything else out of his head. "He serves the duchess of Varingia. He's come on her business. I don't know what it is."

Tallia tugged on his sleeve and when he leaned toward her, whispered in his ear. "You were taken by a fit. You shouldn't have touched the frog! I begged your father to let the deacon sprinkle holy water on you and exorcise you with prayer, but he refused!"

"My father knows what he is about." It wasn't right that Tallia criticize his father, when she understood nothing of the matter: That Lavastine deliberately kept churchfolk away from Alain when he was struck by visions. With a flash of irritation, Alain turned away from her and picked up the wine cup again, sipping at it to stop himself from saying something rash.

As soon as Julien cleared his platter, Lavastine called him forward to deliver his message.

Julien acquitted himself well enough. Alain had no cause to feel embarrassment at the association, and why should he? Bel had made sure that all of those under her charge were raised with good manners. "My lord count. My lord. My lady." He nodded to Lavastine, Alain, and Tallia, in turn. "I ride at the bidding of Yolande, Duchess of Varingia. She bids you greeting. Count Lavastine, and sends greetings to her cousin, Tallia of Varre. Within a fortnight she will pass this way to offer these greetings in person and to bring gifts in honor of the wedding of Lady Tallia and Lord Alain. It is her devout wish to celebrate Matthiasmass with her cousin, so that they may pray for peace."

Cousin.
Julien was his cousin no longer. He truly understood it now as Lavastine told Julien that in the morning he would ride back to his mistress and let her know that all would be ready for her arrival. Julien did not hesitate as he returned to the lower end of the hall, where men-at-arms and servingwomen gathered cheerfully around him to hear news of far-off regions. It was not a place Alain belonged any longer. He would only be in their way, should he try to speak to Julien again.

"So it begins," said Lavastine softly. He wore his thinnest smile. "Now the jackals will gather round, because we have the prize."

The prize.

It had never meant anything to Alain before, prizes, alliances, the ties of blood. But now it came clear: Tallia's blood and rank would draw them to Lavas like flies to honey. Tallia had called herself a pawn because more powerful hands moved her where she did not want to go, but he had learned the rules of the game called chess this past year. The pieces called Lions were also called pawns because they were men-at-arms, common-born and expendable—like Julien. But Tallia was not a pawn. She was the granddaughter of kings and queens.

In the game of chess, that made her a Regnant.

TJnLE journey on roads fallen into ruin was hard on the horses. Anne directed them down the wrong fork in a maze of woodland paths and they had to retrace their steps only to find after much confusion that the pavement of the old Dariyan road had lain hidden by debris and moss. A chance-met forester, surprised to see them, told them that the village of Krona lay some miles ahead, and Anne nodded, seeming to expect this. Not four miles after, as twilight lengthened, one of the pack mules collapsed and died, worn beyond endurance.

They camped that night out of sight of the corpse, but Anne set a servant to watch over it. They had been dogged by miserable weather, and it drizzled now. Liath had twisted her ankle when she'd slipped while dismounting, but she dealt with her misery by becoming increasingly silent. In truth, Sanglant was glad of it. He'd known soldiers who suffered loudly and those who suffered silently, and although he knew God enjoined humankind to feel compassion, he preferred the silent sufferers.

Right now he crouched over a fire that he coaxed to stay alive despite the rain. Earlier he'd gathered comfrey along the banks of a stream. Now it steeped in boiled water. Anne came up behind him. She had an odd step, decided, as if she knew where she was going, but not at all heavy, as if she meant to treat lightly so no footprint would be left behind. Her robes smelled of rose oil. "You are learned in herb lore, Prince Sanglant? I thought you merely a fighting man."

"I know a little," he said cautiously. "It's always wise to observe, to learn what's useful. I can treat wounds and a few illnesses, such things as we see on campaign."

She asked him a few questions, and he was astonished to discover that he knew more than she did about herbs. Her knowledge of them seemed all secondhand, as if she had spent time with someone who knew herblore but had in that time never truly listened to that wisdom. It did not interest her. If anything, what interested her was the extent of his knowledge, not the lore itself, which he had gleaned over many years by watching, listening, and asking questions of wisewomen and conjuremen and such healers as traveled in the train of armies.

Later, when Liath sniffed at the poultice, she said "comfrey" in a choked voice, then shut her eyes and sucked in air as he pressed it gently over her ankle. He settled down behind her so that, back against back, they braced each other. It had stopped raining but now and again drops sprayed his face, spilled on a gust of wind. The dog snuffled along the ground, then flopped down beside him. It was so thin, and it never seemed to get any stronger. Sometimes he felt as if he were the thread drawing it forward, that otherwise it would simply lie down and die.

"Da always said comfrey for sprains and aches," murmured Liath. "People would come to him when they were sick. I never paid attention to how much he knew."

Sanglant shut his eyes. He was comfortable with her as counterbalance against his back. His fingertips brushed the dog's ears. Its hide had such an odd texture, not at all comforting like a real dog's coat but dry and rough. Still. It grunted and whined, tail thumping as he scratched its head. He felt himself dozing off, his awareness like the thread that bound the dog to him just as he was bound to his father by an intangible cord that gleamed as softly as starlight. Yet that connecting thread wound farther back, beyond, to a place unremembered but felt in the pulse of his heart, so faint that he had to smell it and hear it more than see it, a binding made by the pull of blood.

A woman walks along a forest path. Shadow and light makes her clothing appear strange, unearthly: a jacket like that worn by the Quman, a ragged skin skirt made of a thin, pale leather. Feathers and beads decorate her hair. A rough-looking man walks behind her, leading a horse. She pauses as if taking a scent, then lifts her stone-pointed spear, shakes it once, twice.

He grunted, coming awake to see a fire snapping brightly a body's length from them.

"I'm better at controlling fire," she said. "It helps that it's wet. The damp is like a shield—

Such a bitter regret washed over him at the thought of the soldiers he'd left behind at Werlida that he winced, then struggled up to his feet.

"What is it?"

"I have to walk."

He walked back to where the dead mule lay at the side of the old road. Its gear had been stripped and taken forward to the campsite. It had collapsed beside a mile marker, a small granite post barely poking out above the litter of forest fall. With a finger he traced the number carved there. Lichen had grown into the chiseled lines. Moss made a little hat on the flat top of the marker, damp and soft. The dead animal had a faint putrescence, and the sheen of light that marked the presence of one of the servants hovered round it, inquisitive, as if it had never seen death before and did not know what to make of it.

In the morning Anne had the servants transfer the baggage from the dead mule to her own, and she insisted on walking even when Sanglant offered her Resuelto.

It was hard going. Roots had torn up portions of the old pavement; water and ice had shattered others. Liath stayed on her horse and didn't complain. Eventually the woodland opened out, and beyond a river they saw a thread of smoke marking a village. The old bridge had fallen to pieces, planks lost or gaping. Sanglant scouted the shore but could find no boat, and in the end he volunteered to lead the horses and mules across one by one. In some places he had to shove planks together. In others, he simply laid his shield down over the gaps so they could get across. In this way they made it to the other side. Of the servants he saw no sign, but one of them blew in his ear teasingly.

The old road forked one last time before the village, and here Anne took the fork that led away from the first strip of fields.

"We are not going to the village," said Anne when he objected. He was tired, damp, hungry, and wanting a fire. But they pitched back into woodland again, trudged up through rugged country torn by rock falls. The old road thrust gamely along, finding purchase through a series of switchbacks and supporting arches. Long after midday they reached a ridge. Wind blew incessantly and broke the cloud cover into a patchwork, ragged clots of blue among the gray-white clouds. They struggled along the exposed road for what seemed hours. The footing was terrible, loose rock, pebbles, slick moss. To the right lay a deep

and narrow valley, thick with trees. At last the road skirted a hollow sunk into the ridge, and there, in the hollow below, stood nine stones, one of them listing badly. The other eight were squat and square, dark-grained, colored by lichen. It had long since stopped raining, and most of the cloud cover had blown on to the northwest, but the wind cut wickedly here on the height. Anne slipped back her hood and started down where a path cut away from the road and curved down the slope to end as a dirt ring around the stones.

They made camp outside the crown of stones, somewhat out of the wind. Liath winced as she put weight on her foot, but she could walk on it now. Sanglant diligently applied another poultice. He loved touching her, even if it was just rubbing ointment on her swollen ankle. It was quiet except for the wind. Too quiet.

He looked up suddenly, stood, and listened. "The servants are gone."

"They cannot enter the halls of iron," replied Anne. "They will return by a different road.
We
must wait for night. That is the measure of the darkness which taints us as long as we exist on this earth: that we can only see into the world above when nights lies over us."

"I don't understand what you mean."

"The arts of the mathematici," said Liath abruptly. She had barely spoken to her mother since the incident at the crossroads. She closed her eyes and got that look on her face that meant she was remembering, "seeking in the city of memory," she called it. "The geometry of the stars,'" she said slowly, as if quoting. " 'Through their shifting alignments the mathematicus can draw power from the highest spheres down below the sphere of the moon.' The stone circles are gateways that were built long ago, even before the Dariyan Empire. Da spoke of such pathways. But we never used them."

"He did not have the knowledge, or the strength," said Anne. "He was not patient enough." She seemed about to say something else, but did not.

"They were too dangerous," retorted Liath. "They can find you there, just as in the vision seen through fire."

"Who can find you?"

"Anything that's looking for you. If there is a gate, then anyone who can see it can also pass through it. Isn't that right?"

"Many creatures walk for a time upon the earth, it is true, and some have the ability to pass through into places where humans cannot wander. These crowns are gateways, but not just for creatures who are made of a different substance than we are, and not just for those of humankind who have struggled to master the arts of the mathematici. There are yet others who know sorcery and practice its secrets for their own gain, because these gateways open into places far distant from here, even beyond what we understand of earth itself. Did Bernard never tell you of what else has sought to use these gateways for their own ends?"

"I found out for myself when I saw a daimone," she said bitterly. "I heard its voice calling me—" Then, abruptly, her expression changed; she had thought of something else, not daimones at all, something she did not want to speak of. She had never mastered concealing her thoughts; to him, she was transparent. It was one of the things about her that he found so attractive, the impulsive way she had, as if she could never help herself.