In the Ruins (52 page)

Torches burn in sconces bracketed every three strides along the wall. The tang of smoke licks at him, reminding him of scorched timbers and dying men. His dogs whine from their corner. No doubt they dream of the slaughter which feeds them
.

“That is the point in keeping the old royal lineage alive now that the rest are dead,” she continues mercilessly. “If you marry the eldest princess, then it will bind the Alban people closer to you.”

“She will have turned against her ancestors, the queens, if she agrees to such an arrangement. She was to be the sacrifice to death, not to life.”

“The queens made such alliances in plenty when they ruled. It is the way of noble houses to marry this daughter to that son, this lady widow to that lord’s unmarried brother, to make peace or expand influence or consolidate fortunes. Among humankind, it is not considered treason but wisdom and expedience.”

It is a cool night, cloudy and dark as always these days. Through the open doors and shutters he hears the footsteps of guards on the wall that surrounds the rebuilt hall and repaired stone tower, the heart of Hefenfelthe. Beneath the light of one of the torches, two Eika warriors dice, a game they learned from human comrades. Their human pack brothers doze restlessly beside them, twitching and, now and again, moaning in sleep as they chase dreams. Other Eika guards stand in that strange half dream and half waking stupor that humans mistake for sleep. Even Trueheart, grasping the standard, sways on his feet
.

Over the long autumn and this interminable winter and seemingly endless spring, the winds and tides have conspired to confine him to Alba’s shores. Yet while the sea’s caprice chafes him, it has also given him time to consolidate his victory in Alba. The central and southern plains are now quiet. The last of the resistance has been forced into the northern and western hill country, too rugged to pacify easily but possible to contain through judicious use of forts
,
raids, bribes, and the resettlement of former slaves on those lands closest to the rebels
.

“Among humankind such alliances lead to offspring,” he adds. “Should I marry the Alban princess, we could not breed.”

“
No, I suppose not. It would be a political alliance only. This, too, you must consider, Lord Stronghand. If you do not make plans for succession, then your empire of Eika and Alba will fall apart when you die
.”

“
That is true, Deacon Ursuline. I have considered the question more than once over this long winter. All things die in the end. We are only flies compared to the life of stone. We sons of OldMother are shorter-lived even than humankind. Yet this hall—” He indicates the rafters, the plank floor, the steps leading up to the tower. “—will survive me, and it will even survive you
.”

“
As long as war or tempest do not destroy it. You must build an edifice that will survive despite war and tempest
.”

“
Using what materials? I have stone, steel, and flesh
.”

“
You have mercy and justice
.”

“
I have my wits
.”

“
With all respect, Lord Stronghand, your wit will not survive you
.”

“
What if I care nothing for what passes in the world once I am gone
?”

“
Do you not
?”

He laughs. “If I cared nothing, I would not be sitting here.”

In the distance, too faint for the deacon to hear, guards call out a challenge. He cocks his head, listening, and identifies the lilt of voice and rhythm of hurried stride as that of Lord Erling. Strange that Erling should be here in Hefenfelthe instead of tending to his own earldom. Trueheart shakes himself alert
.

“Is someone come?” asks the deacon belatedly, turning to look. “It’s so late…”

The young Alban sweeps through the door as if on a gust of wind, hair blown in disarray and cloak streaming back as he approaches the dais. Four soldiers, two Eika and two Albans, follow him. Stronghand’s Eika guards shift into readiness
,
axes and spears raised, but Erling halts and drops to one knee. Stronghand lifts his hand and, given permission by this gesture, the young man rises
.

“I did not expect to see you,” says Stronghand
.

“News!” He is flushed with news. His skin is red
.

“
How fares the middle country
?”

“
Well enough considering we’ve not yet had sun this year. Folk fear it is a sign of the gods’ displeasure
.”

“
Do you think it so
?”

Erling has taken to wearing a Circle of Unity. His is silver, finely made, and incised with leaves as if to recall the old religion he left behind. He touches it now. “It might be. I am no priest to name God’s will. Still, the folk who have lost what they once had might have reason to suppose God displeased with them. I worry for the summer’s growing season if the weather remains so damp and cloudy.”

“As do we all,” says Deacon Ursuline
.

“What brings you south, Erling?” Stronghand asks
.

The young man nods. “I wished to observe the anniversary of my mother’s death at Briden Manor, south of the river. I rode south to plant a tree at her grave.”

“So the tree priests would have you do,” scolds the deacon, although her tone is benign, not harsh. “Better to pray for her soul and dedicate a convent in her memory.”

“
Can I do that
?”

“
Surely you can, and endow a dozen novices to pray for your mother’s soul each and every day of the year
.”

“
I like that idea! But I would need a priestess—a mother—to watch over them and guide them
.”

“
I can make sure that such a woman, we call her an abbess, is available to you, Lord Erling. You need only ask
.”

“As must I,” says Stronghand, tapping one foot. “What news do you bring me so late at night and in such a rush as if on the wings of a storm?”

“
Ah! Just that, Lord! An omen has been seen in the south! A dragon! Seen flying by the sea
.”

The Eika murmur among themselves at this astounding news
.

Dragons! Have the First Mothers risen out of the wake of
the sorcery that altered the world? Have things changed so greatly
?

“Come.” Stronghand rises. He leads them up the stairs, into the tower, and by ladders and steep steps to the roof. It is a stiff night, cuttingly cold up so high with the wind’s bite on hands and face. The men shiver and rub their hands, but he leans into the wind and listens
.

After a while, he speaks
.

“
It was long told among my people that the FirstMothers bred in ancient days with the living spirits of earth and in that time gave birth to the RockChildren. It’s said that in Wintertide, in the Western Sea, one may hear them calling
…”

“Listen!” cries Erling
.

Yes
!

They all lean south, many pressed against the stone battlements as though likely to hurl themselves over if only that would bring them closer to what they seek. The call thrums through the air, its vibration so low that he feels it through the stone
.

A sun rises in the southeast
.

“Look!” cries Trueheart
.

There are two of them, seen first simply as a bending, twisting aurora of light far off but approaching fast. Their bellies gleam. Their tails lash like lightning. They are coming up the river, following the course of the water as they fly inland on what errand he cannot guess. Alarm bells clang, and he hears a clamor as folk rush out of their halls and hovels
.

They grow in size; they near; they are huge, impossibly vast. A hot stream of stinging wind pours over Hefenfelthe and in their wake the clouds churn and the forest roars
.

“Look!” cries Erling. “The stars!”

Above, the clouds have parted to reveal those pinpricks, the most ancient ones, the eternal stars. But as the dragons course northwest, as the heat and wind falter and the cold night air sweeps back, mist shrouds that glimpse of the heavens and soon all is concealed again
.

“It’s time to move,” says Stronghand, when all is silent
.
They stare northwest, but there is nothing to see. Night veils all things. “That is an omen, indeed, Lord Erling. You were right to bring news of it so quickly.”

“Yes, my lord,” the young man says, but he is barely breathing. He is still in shock, staring fixedly northwest as if turned to stone
.

“We must make ready,” continues Stronghand. “Trueheart, you’ll remain here as my governor. Stores must be set aside for next winter. Seed corn hoarded, as much as possible. Plant fields. Hunt and trap, raid our enemies in the north and west and take their grain and seed corn for ourselves and our loyal servants. If they starve, so much the better. Lord Erling, you and the other lords I have raised will remain secure if your people have enough to eat. Be prepared for anything.”

“So have we seen!” Erling whispered, still staring after the vanished dragons
.

“
In six months I will return to make an accounting
.”

“Where do you go, Stronghand?” Trueheart asks. “Will you fight again in Salia?”

He looks at Deacon Ursuline. She nods. “I must consult with the WiseMothers. I believe they have much they can tell me.”

“Should they choose to do so,” she says
.

“Should they choose to do so. There is much I desire to know. This war is only beginning.”

another tear.

The tears were only beginning.

Dizzied, he shaded his eyes with a hand, but he had to concentrate, to fix on this moment, this Earth, this place—not the other one—because Henri was still talking.

“She was strong-willed but weak in her heart. Desperate, and beautiful. She used her beauty to feed herself, to get what she wanted. It was the only way she knew, Alain. Had she not been so desperately poor, she might have been otherwise. I do not know what she endured before she came to Lavas Holding. She would never speak of it. Pregnancy killed her. It’s the war women fight. Just as men die in battle, so some women are fated to die in childbed,
wrestling with life. You survived it. She did not, though she wished to live. Fought to live. Sometimes beauty is like a candle flame—it shines because it burns. I would have married her, but she wanted something else.”

“What did she want?”

Henri shrugged with one shoulder, a movement so constrained that if Alain had not lowered his hand at that instant he would have missed it. “I don’t know. She wished to be something she was not.”

“As I did.”

“No, Son. No. Well, perhaps.” He laughed weakly. “That comes of her, I suppose.” He set down the file, scratched his beard, scratched his hair, and picked up the file again. “After all this, who do you think your father is? I mean, the one whose seed watered her garden.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I know who I am now because I know what I must do.”

Henri frowned. “You will leave us.”

“I must.” Sorrow barked, and he heard the hounds thrashing back through the undergrowth. He rose and stepped to see around the boat and up the trail. “Here comes Artald.”

Stancy’s husband waved to get their attention as he strode up. He was local born and local bred, a man without much imagination but levelheaded and generous, and a hard worker whose labor had helped Aunt Bel’s workshop prosper. He wasn’t puffing at all although he’d come in haste.

“Where’s Jul and Bruno?” he asked as his gaze skimmed the sound, seeking their sail. “Well, no use waiting for them.”

“What news?” asked Henri.

“A runner from t’village. They say Chatelaine Dhuoda has come with a small company.”

“Lord Geoffrey with her?”

“Nay, nothing like that. She’s looking for Alain, here. Best if he goes, don’t you think?”

“Best if I go,” agreed Alain, looking at Henri.

Henri frowned and absently patted the head of Sorrow as he nodded. “Just so, if she’s asking particular for him. Is
she come to take young folk to Lavas Holding for their year of service?”

Artald shrugged. “Runner spoke nothing of that, Uncle. I’ll go with Alain.”

“Best we all go,” said Henri, “considering in what state we found him.”

“Ah!” Artald stroked his beard. “Hadn’t thought of that, truly. They might be wishing him mischief, after all is said and done.”

“They won’t harm me,” said Alain. He whistled, and Rage padded in from the woods, worrying at one paw.

“Still,” said Henri, “we’ll all come. Best to sound the horn and call Julien back, if he can hear. He’s the only one among us who has any real training at arms.”

The horn was slung up under the low rafters of the boathouse. Artald unfastened it and walked down to the edge of the water before lifting it to his lips. The low moan trembled across the waters. Alain bade Rage sit, then pulled three burrs out of the fur in and around a paw. After this, he gathered up tools and supplies and headed up the trail with the hounds panting along behind him. A second call chased him, then faded, and he paused on the trail to let Henri catch up.

“In so much hurry to leave us?” asked Henri.

“I pray you, forgive me, Father. It’s just I’ve been expecting this.”

“That the Counts of Lavas will come seeking you?”

“No. Only that there would be a sign that this time of peace had come to an end.”

That evening he packed such things as he thought he would need: a spare tunic; a pair of soft boots that Aunt Bel absolutely insisted he take along; rope braided by Bruno; a pouch of silver sceattas out of Medemelacha; a collection of small tools from the workshop rolled up in a leather belt that Artald felt were indispensable to a man wanting to make his way in the world; a strong staff carved by Julien; gloves Stancy had sewn out of calf leather; a heavy wool cloak woven by Agnes; and a bowl, cup, and
spoon carved by Henri, each one with a hound’s head incised into the concave base.