PROLOGUE (56 page)

"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
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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.