PROLOGUE (42 page)

Tomorrow, the king would ride out after deer.

Tonight, some slept more restfully than others.

Liath pulled off her gloves and, her fingers clumsy with cold, found the gold feather in her pouch. Instinct had warned her not to pick up the white feather she had found beside Da's body the night he was murdered. Now she had seen what manner of creature shed such feathers. But this gold feather, plucked from the ashes of a dying fire through which she had seen a vision of the old Aoi sorcerer, had a different texture, one of promise, not pain or fear.

Drawing the feather gently through her fingers, she stared into the fire, thinking of Hanna, forming Hanna's face and expression in her mind's eye, the curve of her shoulders, the twist of her braided hair, the seal ring of the Eagles on her right middle finger. On one other occasion this past summer she had formed Hanna so in her mind, and within the gateway made by fire she had seen shadows of a narrow pass winding through mountains whipped by storm, of a landslide that had obliterated a road. Was it only her fear, imagining such a scene, or had she truly visioned Hanna in the mountains, threatened by an unseasonable storm?

Where was Hanna now? As she concentrated, spinning the feather through her fingers, she saw movement within the flames, images seen through a veil of fire.

A standing stone in the midst of a clearing burns with a fire born of no natural kindling, for it burns without fuel and gives off no heat. No one sits on the flat rock where once the old Aoi sorcerer sat and spoke to her. Sinewy plant stalks lie in a heap at the foot of the rock, awaiting his return. A rope the length of her arm lies draped over the rock. Where did he go? When will he return?

But the burning stone is itself a window, shutters opening through which she can look onto another place.

Hanna rides with three ragged Lions at her side across a plain populated more by grass than by trees. The rising sun glints off her brass Eagle's badge. They are leaving a village, a cluster of sod huts thatched with grass; some of the roofs are scorched. The wooden palisade is also scored with fire and the scars of battle. Fresh graves lie outside the palisade and beyond them stretch empty fields dusted with fresh snow.

Ice rimes Hanna's eyebrows. In her gloved left hand she holds a broken arrow tipped with an iron point and fletched with iron-gray feathers that resemble those of no bird Liath has seen or heard tell of. The Lions, grim of face, sing as they walk; Liath cannot hear the words, but it is not a happy song. Villagers cluster at the palisade gate to call out farewells. One lad breaks away, bundle thrown across his back, and hurries after them. His mother weeps, but she lets him go. The Lions make room for him among their number. Hanna stares straight ahead, eyes to the west, where their path leads.

Why is Wolfhere not with Hanna? The feather brushes Liath's palm, and fire snaps and wavers. Now she sees a lofty hall illuminated by the winter sky seen through huge glass windows and by what seem a thousand candles burning in imitation of the stars. A man steps humbly forward in the way of a person brought before a regnant, and as he bows before an unseen figure, Liath recognizes him: It is Wolfhere. On the walls behind him she sees bold frescoes depicting the martyrdoms of the seven disciplas: Thecla, Peter, Matthias, Mark, Johanna, Lucia, and Marian. Is this the audience chamber of the skopos in Darre?

He straightens up, and his eyes lift to take in a dimly-seen person sitting in great state on a gilded chair. His nostrils flare in surprise. He murmurs a name under his breath.

"Liath."

Liath started back, remembering all at once that there was also danger within the vision made by fire.
They
were looking for her, and they could see her when she wandered in the flames.

But it was too late.

Their touch came, fingers laid lightly on her shoulders.

Ai, Lady. Not
their
fingers.

His.

"Liath, my beauty." His hand closed over her shoulder and with that grip he forced her to rise and turn away from the fire to face him. The wind was not more cold than his expression. "So at last I find you alone." He smiled.

She jerked away, but he held on to her, not letting go. She caught back a whimper. Ai, Lady, she dared not let him know how scared she was. Clutching the feather behind her back, she stared at the fine brocade on his tunic and willed herself to become as hard as stone.

"You look well, my beauty. And perhaps it is best I have looked but little upon you these past six days since I came to the king's progress, or I should have been dreadfully tempted."

She said nothing, but she knew he was still smiling. She felt, though his left hand did not touch her, that hand close and then open, flexing. His right hand burned her shoulder as if ice pressed against her skin.

"Do you have nothing to say to me, Liath?"

She said nothing. She moved not at all. She was stone, heavy, insensible.

"I am not happy that you left me," he said in his most gentle voice. "Indeed, I am disappointed. But I forgive you. You didn't know what you were doing. And it matters not. What happened that day means nothing to us. You are still my precious slave."

"No!" She wrenched away from him, almost falling into the fire as her heel scattered coals and burning brands. Heedless, she stooped to grab the end of a burning stick and held it out like a sword. "I am free of you. Wolfhere set me free!"

He laughed, delighted. "This is the Liath I remember and the one that the court will see beside me, in the fullness of time, when I can display you as you are meant to be displayed. But no one can see us now." He touched a finger to his lips to enjoin her to silence. His handsome face looked no less beautiful in the firelight, adorned by shifting light and shadow. "Look you, Liath." He lifted his left hand, two fingers raised, and murmured a word. The burning stick extinguished as if a sudden gust of wind had blown it out.

Her voice caught in her, and all that came out was a fragile whisper of sound, more breath than word.

"A child's trick," he said modestly, "but we must all begin somewhere." He carefully drew the stick out of her hand and tossed it away. "Wolfhere did not set you free. He stole you from me. I have not yet laid my grievance against Wolfhere before King Henry, who will pass judgment. Be assured I will
—although, alas, I must wait until Sapientia has the child and it lives and is healthy. After that blessed event my position at court will be unassailable. But until then, Liath, do not think you have escaped me. We will ride together and speak together, sing together and feast together, and you shall be near me every hour of every day."

"I am not your slave," she repeated stubbornly, hand smarting from the sting of the brand. "Wolfhere freed me." He shook his head as a wise father considers his child's foolishness. "Wolfhere? Wolfhere wants you for his own reasons. Don't think Wolfhere took you except to use you himself."

"Not in
that
way." Then, horrified she had spoken of such a thing when they were alone, she tried again to bolt. He was too fast for her, and his grip was strong as he took hold of her arms and pulled her against him. "In what way, Liath? No, not in
that
way. He and his kind have other plans for you, no doubt."

"What do you know of Wolfhere and his kind?" Ai, Lady, what if Hugh truly knew something and could tell her? How much would she be willing to give him in return? But he only sighed deeply and kissed her on the forehead. She shuddered, paralyzed by the sick, helpless fear in her belly. He did not let go of her. "I will be honest with you, Liath, as I have always been honest with you. I only suspect Wolfhere works in league with other unknown people. He was thrown out of court for
something,
some act, some opinion, and it is well known he has mastered the art of seeing through fire and stone. Surely he must have other skills, or be in league with those who do. I know your father was murdered, and I know he was trying to hide you, his most precious treasure. Therefore, someone else must be looking for you. Does that not follow? If they are willing to murder your father, how can you expect kindness from them? You will wish most devoutly, my beauty, that you were back in my bed if they get hold of you, as they will, if you don't come back to me. I can protect you." "I don't want your protection." Twisting, she tried to spin out of his grasp, but he was too strong. And she was too weak.

"You are bound to me," he whispered. "You will always be bound to me. No matter where you run, I will always find you. You will always come back to me."

She glimpsed a figure in the gloom, a servingman out in the night, perhaps walking to the privies. "I beg you, friend!" she called out to him, her voice ragged with fear.

Hugh wrenched her arm tightly up against her back, trapping her. The servingman turned, his face indistinguishable in the darkness
—but her position was silhouetted plainly by the fire.

"How fare you, friend?" the man asked. "Need you help?"

"Please
—" Liath began, but Hugh pressed his free hand to her throat and suddenly she
could not speak.

"Nay, brother," answered Hugh sternly. "We need no help here. You may move on."

Whether because he recognized the voice of a nobleman, the robes of a churchman, or was simply obedient to a tone in Hugh's voice which he could not resist, the man turned away and vanished on his errand, abandoning her.

"No," she whispered, finding her voice again when Hugh lowered his hand.

"Yes." Hugh smiled. "You are mine, Liath. You will love me in the end."

"I love someone else," she said hoarsely. The feather, still hidden, burned like a hot coal against her free hand. "I love another man."

She only knew how gentle he had been before because he now went white with rage and shook her viciously. "Who?
Who is it?"

Unable to help herself, she began to weep. "Ai, Lady, he's dead."

"Any man you love will die, for I proclaim it so. I will make it so. Love no one, love only me, and you will be safe."

"I will never love you. I
hate
you."

"Hate is only the other face of love, my beauty. You cannot hate what you cannot also love. My beautiful Liath. How I love the sound of your name on my lips."

She believed him. That was the worst of it. He spoke so persuasively, and his voice was so soft
—except she knew what he was, she had seen that glimpse of it when she made him angry.

"I will always treat you well," he said as if he had heard her thoughts, "as long as you obey me."

She began again to cry. Seeing her reduced to weeping in front of him, her fear and weakness revealed utterly, he let go of her. Like a rabbit miraculously released from the clutches of a hawk, she ran.

"Where will you go?" he called after her, mocking her as she ran. "You will never escape me, Liath. Never."

She ran to the stables where so many animals and sta-blehands crammed in together that breath and sweat made the air almost warm. But she would never be warm again.

AJNiNA shivered as wind wailed through the trees. Snowflakes spun down; a thin dusting made the ground bright, and the wind shuddered branches of trees and shook snow from them in sudden waterfalls of white.

It was so cold.

Here in the shelter of a fir tree, she had at least some respite from the constant cut of wind. But there was never any respite from fear or from the pit of hunger that yawned in her belly like the dreaded Abyss. Two horses also sheltered under the cave made by the fir's branches; with reins wrapped loosely around a crook in one thick branch, they snuffled at the forest litter, trying to graze.
"Watch the horses," two of Lord Wichman's soldiers had ordered her after finding her foraging in the woods. "Pull the reins free and flee if the Eika approach."

She hadn't known she was so close to Eika. She stayed within the cover of trees on her daily foraging expeditions into the forest, but every day she had to search farther away from the battered holding of Steleshame to find any pittance to add to the shared pot. In this way, with the young lord growing bored of Master Helvidius' poetry and Mistress Gisela eager to exclude anyone who didn't "earn their keep," Anna staved off the cold knife of starvation. It would not have been like this if Matthias hadn't died.

She shuddered. She could not bear to think about Matthias. Maybe it would have been better to have died with him, it hurt so much to be without him. But the old poet and the child relied on her as well; she had to go on.

She rubbed her hands and listened. She had been told to stay on the lee of the hill, to save the horses should things go awry. Yet, there
was
grass atop the hill, yellowed and dry under the winter sky and high enough to hide her. If she could watch the raid, wouldn't she be better able to protect herself and the horses she had been put in charge of? What if the soldiers' blades couldn't penetrate Eika hides? What if Lord Wichman and his men were all killed and the Eika came searching for her and she didn't know they were coming? What if she were unable to flee, or the reins wouldn't unwrap from the tree limb? What if she fell from the horse? She didn't know how to ride.