In the Ruins (26 page)

“Liath was here? What happened to her?”

“That you must ask the one you call Sorgatani. Fewer
than half of Lady Bertha’s soldiers survived the battle. Come, you are wanted.”

A powerfully built woman strode up. She carried herself with the arrogance of noble birth, a thing so unconscious that Hanna knew at once this soldierly-looking female must be Margrave Judith’s daughter. There was little resemblance between her and her mother, and even less to her beautiful half brother.

“This is the Eagle?”

“I am Hanna, my lady. I serve the Emperor Henry.”

“Emperor! Well, I hope his quest for Taillefer’s crown has served him well, but I fear he has only served the plots and plans of those who ensorcelled him.”

“I fear so, my lady.”

She beckoned, and a pair of soldiers showed Hanna to the stump of a tree hollowed and marked by ax blows, where an armorer plied his trade mending armor. Lady Bertha followed them and watched with interest as Hanna laid her chain across the log and leaned away, grimacing, as the men took turns hammering at the links until one shattered.

“You can manage with that for now,” said the lady. “Go on, then. Sorgatani is anxious to see you.”

“Yes, my lady. How did you know how to find me?”

“Hanna,” said Breschius.

She followed him. Rather than leading her first to the isolated wagon, he took her aside to the rim of the pool, where a naturally stepped rock ledge gave access to the water just out of sight of the main camp.

“You must wash first,” he said. “You can’t come into her presence so dirty as you are. I’ll get clean clothing for you.”

“Where will any of you have clean clothing?” She gestured toward the camp. “It looks as rustic as the hideout of bandits.”

“Wash,” he said, and left her there.

She stripped and carried her filthy tunic and leggings into the water with her. It was cold enough, God knew, and the water more bracing than the chilly air, but nevertheless with her teeth chattering and her eyes stinging she endured it and scrubbed her hair and scalp with her fingers
and rubbed down her skin as well as she could, crying and laughing together because it hurt to get clean. The shackles on her wrists and ankles had rubbed her skin raw in spots, but after the first sharp pain, the ice of the water numbed her injuries.

Breschius returned with a square of folded cloth draped across his left forearm, held in place with his stump pressing it down from above. He chimed when he walked. It seemed he wore anklet bells as well as the belled bracelet. He placed the clothing on the rock and sat with his back to her at the top of the stair-step ledge. His hair, cut short, was clean, and his clothing had been washed and mended. Even his hand was not as dirty as those of the soldiers she had seen working and loitering in camp.

“Were you with Liath?” she asked.

“I was Sorgatani, Lady Bertha, and Her Highness Lady Liathano came from the uttermost east, passing through two crowns until we came to the shore of the Middle Sea. There we met the forces of the skopos. Many of our people were slain, but we escaped because … because the lady called fire.”

The tremor in his voice gave her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. When she said nothing, not sure what to say, he went on.

“Although we were pursued, Sorgatani used her weather magic to conceal us. So we escaped to these hills. Here we have remained.”

“Where is Liath?”

“Dead, perhaps. Living, perhaps. We do not know.”

She heaved herself up onto the lowest ledge, shaking and trembling. “Ai, God, I pray she is not dead.”

“Sorgatani does not think so. She believes she lives still, although we do not know where she is.”

“Is that why you stayed here? Seeking her?”

“No.”

She found a ragged but clean scrap of linen on the top of the pile and rubbed off as much of the water as the cloth could absorb. Despite the chill in the air, it was still warmer out of the water than in it. He remained silent, back still turned, as she shook out a silk robe that barely reached her
knees as though it had perhaps been meant for a shorter, stouter woman. Certainly it was broad enough for her shoulders and hips. It was a rich red, embroidered with golden dragons grappling with golden phoenixes.

“This is no Wendish tunic!”

“These are the clothes that belonged to one of her servants.”

“Her slaves? I will wear no slave’s robes, however rich they may appear!”

“You are no slave, Hanna. You are Sorgatani’s luck. These are the only spare clothes we have until yours dry and can be repaired.”

“What of the woman who wears these?”

“She is dead.”

“Then who serves Sorgatani? I know it is said—what you told me once—ai, God! It seems so long ago! You told me that a Kerayit shaman can be seen by no person except her blood kinfolk along her mother’s lineage, her slaves, her luck, and her pura, who is also her slave. How came you by these garments?” She had found, now, a cloth belt and a heavier wool tunic to throw over the silk underrobe. Beneath them came baggy linen drawers dyed a soft purple. The soft leather boots had to be fastened by garters to the broad belt, which was studded with gold plates embossed with the heads of griffins.

“Both her slaves died in our flight, alas, as did all nine of the Kerayit guardsmen who fought so that she might not be captured. Without any to serve her, Sorgatani would have perished as well, because of the geas laid upon her kind.”

“Then who serves her?”

As quickly as she asked the question, she knew the answer. He did not turn, or shift at all, but his shoulders tightened and the angle of his head altered subtly and dangerously.

“You became her pura?” she asked, as shocked as she could be.

He chuckled. “Certainly she is beautiful, but alas, she made no such tempting offer. I accepted the chains that make me her slave.”

“Do you not serve God, Brother? How can you serve both God and an earthly master?”

“Is it not a worthy service to save the life of another, even if she is a heathen? So I do believe. If I did not serve her, she would have died. No one else in Lady Bertha’s troop was willing to take on the duty. In any case, without Sorgatani’s protection, we would have been discovered and killed long ago, and we would not gain a steady supply of meat to feed ourselves.”

“Are you content, Brother?”

“I am resigned, Hanna. God command me to serve. I have discovered that I am often surprised by the unexpected nature of that service.”

She could not interpret his tone, and found that she did not want to think too hard about what he might have sacrificed and what it might mean that she was about to meet a woman who had claimed a relationship to her that Hanna did not remotely understand. “What of Sister Rosvita and her companions? Did Sorgatani find them, too?”

“In a manner of speaking. Following your trail, we fell upon them hiding in the woods and so took them in.”

“Following my trail? That of the Arethousan army?”

“No, although truly it was not difficult to follow the army’s dust cloud as it marched. You are Sorgatani’s luck. Brought so close to you, how could she fail to know where you were? Thus were you found, and rescued. Come, are you ready?”

She sighed as she clasped her belt and smoothed a hand over the bumps and ridges made by the embroidery. Such fine cloth would only be worn by the most noble of princes, in the west, and yet the Kerayit clothed their slaves in this finery. “Yes. As ready as I will ever be.”

Her hair was tangled and she had no comb, but it was cleaner than it had been before. Her stomach growled, and she willed away a flash of dizziness as the wind shifted to spill the fat smell of meat past them.

“Leave your old clothing,” he said. “I’ll see that it is cared for.”

“I thank you.”

She was aware of the camp as a scene unfolding beyond her reach. When they reached the wagon, she mounted the steps and touched the latch tentatively.

“Go on,” said Breschius gently. “Don’t set your foot on the threshold.”

She slid open the door and stepped over the threshold, ducking so as not to hit her head. The Kerayit were either much shorter than Wendish folk, or they disdained to waste space simply to accommodate height.

She stumbled as she entered the interior, assaulted by its disproportion. The inside was larger than it had any right to be. She felt dizzy, but the fit passed as she pushed the door closed behind her and straightened up into a spacious, circular chamber richly furnished and eerily quiet. It had a round, felt roof, although definitely the wagon had conveyed no such thing on the outside. A central pole pierced the smoke hole, and the heavens, seen through that hole, shone with a silvery sheen shot through with flashes of light that might be distant lightning or sparks from a nearby fire.

“What manner of place is this?”

“This is where I live, Hanna. Be welcome here.”

Sorgatani stepped out from the shadows. She was as beautiful as Hanna remembered from her dreams, if features molded so differently from those known in Wendish lands could be called beautiful. Hanna thought they could. She had not forgotten Bulkezu.

Sorgatani’s black hair was braided and pinned up against her head, and she wore as a crown a net of delicate golden chains that fell past her shoulders to brush her robe of golden silk. The simple beauty of that fabric put the gaudy embroidery of Hanna’s tunic to shame, and she had a sudden uncomfortable insight that what had seemed a rich garment to her inexperienced gaze might not be one in truth when compared to the fineness of Sorgatani’s garb.

Hanna advanced cautiously to the central pole. There Sorgatani met her and extended both hands, palms up and open. She did not touch her. She kept a hand’s breadth of distance between them, air that felt alive to Hanna’s skin,
as if it had the same breath and soul that animated all living things.

“We are met after long apart,” said the Kerayit woman. “My luck has been taken prisoner by others, but now I have reclaimed you.”

“I am not your slave!”

Sorgatani withdrew her hands. “Did I say you were? I forget you do not know the customs of the Kerayit.”

“Forgive me. I do not mean to offend. Yet I must ask—is it true you traveled with Liath? Is she alive? Where did you first meet her?”

“Far east, in the grasslands, we met. I accompanied her because it was thought my sorcery could assist her, but it proved not to be true.” She sighed. “I liked her.”

That sigh, her expression, the slump of her shoulders: all these touched Hanna in a way no other claim could have. Impulsively she grasped Sorgatani’s hands in hers. The other woman’s hands were callused and her grip, like Hanna’s, was strong. “She is my friend, too. If yours as well, then we are sisters, are we not? In friendship, at least.”

Sorgatani’s dark eyes widened, and her mouth opened, but only a gasp came out.

Hanna released her. “I beg pardon.”

“No. None is needed. It is just—I am not accustomed to being touched.”

“So Brother Breschius told me.” Compassion spilled like light. “It must be difficult, living so alone.”

“It’s true I am lonely, Hanna.” She smiled shyly. “When are you going to bring me my pura?”

“Ai, God! I’m not sure I’m fit for such a duty! There is much I do not know. I am the King’s Eagle, but your luck as well. I do not know what it means. A man cannot serve two masters.”

“You do not serve me! You are my luck, that is all.”

Hanna set a palm to her forehead. “I’m dizzy. Is there any place I may sit down?” She began to move to the broad couch to the left of the door, but Sorgatani steered her to a similar couch set on the right side of the door. “Women don’t sit or sleep on that side. Here.” She seated her on an embroidered cushion, then clapped her hands.

The door slid open and Breschius entered, carrying a tray in one hand which he balanced adroitly with his stump. It contained a fine porcelain cup steaming with an aromatic brew and a bowl of leek-and-venison stew. He placed the tray on the bed and retreated to the opposite side, where he knelt on a layer of rugs.

“Eat.” Sorgatani busied herself opening and shutting drawers in a tall chest standing beside the couch. At her back rested a saddle set on a wooden tree, decorated with silver ornaments and draped with a fine bridle.

Hanna tried not to wolf down her food, knowing it better to eat slowly to spare her stomach the shock of rich food. The tea eased the cold, as did the cozy warmth in the chamber, which emanated from a brazier. As she ate, she studied the furnishings: an altar containing a golden cup, a mirror, a handbell, and a flask. The couch, more like a boxed-in bed, behind Breschius was covered by a felt blanket displaying bright animals: a golden phoenix, a silver griffin, a red deer. No familiar sights greeted her, as would have been the case in any Wendish hall or house she’d had reason to bide in when she rode her messages for King Henry. In the land of the Kerayit, she was a stranger.

“I saw you in dreams, sometimes,” she said at last, not knowing how to speak to one whose language she ought not to know; not knowing how to interpret the many things she saw that were unfamiliar to her. “I looked for you through fire, but these many days I have not been able to see you, or anyone.”

Sorgatani turned. It was apparent she had been waiting for Hanna to speak, thus showing she was finished eating.

“Your Eagle’s Sight, do you mean?” Sorgatani looked over at Breschius. The net that covered her hair chimed in an echo of his anklets and bracelet. Her earrings swayed, a dozen tiny silver fish swarming on the tide of her movement. “Liath spoke of this gift. She taught me its rudiments.”

“She taught you!”

“Is it meant to be hoarded only to your chieftain’s messengers?”

“So I always understood.”

“Yet who taught them? Have you ever asked yourself that? And why?”

“Why were we taught? So that we might see and speak across distances, and thus communicate with each other and with the regnant. In this way the regnant gains strength.”

“For what purpose? Nay, do not answer that question. All chieftains wish to be strong so they can vanquish those who stand against them. Yet before I learned to see through fire, I learned about the nature of the heavens and the mysteries of the crowns. For all my life I have been able to perceive beyond the veil of the world the gateway which we here in the middle world see as a burning stone. In its flames those with sight can see across long distances, and some can even hear and speak words. The Holy One, whose knowledge is ancient and terrible, can glimpse past and future.”