PROLOGUE (32 page)

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 Adelheid'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 campfire, 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
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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."