PROLOGUE (39 page)

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 spirits.

"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 off 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 centaur folk. 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 step through the silk curtains and find herself in a far land, 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 corridor filled with sleeping 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?