PROLOGUE (25 page)

"You mentioned him to Queen Mathilda, did you not? He was in the church?"

She shrugged, not wanting to answer.

"Perhaps he left the church after you were born," suggested Rovita, trying to sound sympathetic, trying to worm her way past the wall the girl had thrown up. "Does he have kin? Do you know who your people are?"

"I have been told he has cousins at Bodfeld. But they disclaimed the kinship after
—" She broke off.

That, Rosvita saw, was the girl's weakness. Once begun, she would forget to stop. "After he acknowledged you as his child? Or had he already left the church?"

"I don't know," said the girl, a little rudely.

"I beg your pardon. But then, I was often told by my mother abbess that my curiosity is unpardonable." Rosvita offered a smile. The girl
almost
smiled back, but did not. The fierce blue of her eyes, as brilliant as sapphires or the blue depths of fire, shone bright against her dusky skin. "Your mother?"

"Is dead. These many years."

"And now Wolfhere has taken you on as his discipla. Perhaps you knew him before?"

"No, I didn't
—" She shook her head impatiently. "He took me into the Eagles. He saved me from—" She winched her right arm more tightly against her side, concealing the book.

Lady Above! Had she
stolen
it from the library at Quedlinhame?

It was time for the direct approach. "What book is that?"

Rosvita had never seen anyone look quite so fragile and terrified.
Had
the girl stolen it? Ought she to seek justice in this case, and force her to tell the truth
—or was it better
to be merciful and let her confess in due time?

"It
—My da gave it to me," the girl said at last, in a rush. "It's the only thing I have left of him."

A rumble of thunder sounded closer now. Rain brushed the cleric's cheeks and struck her hands like thoughts falling from the heavens to disturb what little peace of mind she had ever managed to secure. So many thoughts distracted her, like the drops of rain increasing in frequency now: old Brother Fidelis and his legacy, the
Vita of St. Radegundis,
which he had given to her; his last whispered mention of Seven Sleepers, daimones or humans or some other creatures whose power he feared; the terrible and mysterious disappearance of Villam's son, Berthold, and his six companions, in the stone circle in the hills above Hersford; her
History,
which she really must continue working on so that it might be finished before the old queen died; the book that this vulnerable girl clutched to herself so tightly.

The book.
Rosvita knew at that instant, as if the sound of thunder divined it, that she would somehow, in some way, get a look inside that book.

Suddenly, as lightning flashed and a fresh peal of thunder cracked and roared in response, the girl spoke. "Do you know how to read Arethousan?"

Rosvita arched one eyebrow. "Yes, I do. I learned from Queen Sophia herself." The girl remained silent, quite unlike the unrolling turmoil in the sky. Seeing an opening, Rosvita continued. "Would you like to learn Arethousan? You read Dariyan very well."

She bit her lip. She was tempted.

Tempted.
This Rosvita understood. This fault she knew how to nurture, although surely it was a sin to do so. "I can teach you Arethousan. I saw you reading in the library, a Jinna work, I believe, one of the astronomers. That was just before Ivar
—"

"Ivar," whispered the girl, looking embarrassed.

"My brother Ivar," agreed Rosvita, and saw at once the wedge through which she could penetrate this girl's defenses. "Did he ever speak of me? You knew him in Heart's Rest, I believe, before he entered the church."

"He always spoke of you with respect," she admitted, "though he never wanted to emulate your vocation!"

"So he gave me reason to understand."

The Eagle flushed and looked away, embarrassed either to replay that scene in the library in her own mind or to remember that another had witnessed the whole. "He trusts you."

Rosvita took in a careful breath, measuring her words. This moment was the crucial one. Here might all be won, or lost.

"Sister!"

She almost cursed out loud, managed not to. She glanced toward the sound of the voice and grimaced. A middle-aged man with dark hair and undistinguished features
—a King's Eagle—led his horse through the gate into the courtyard.

"I beg you, Sister, I bring an important message." He led the horse forward
—it was limping—and halted before her. "Sister," he repeated respectfully.

Lady's Blood! Granted this distraction, the girl escaped, slinking away like a hunted creature escaping the hounds. It was too late to call her back, and in any case, Rosvita knew her duty: The man looked worn, weary, and as if his feet hurt him.

"Where have you come from?" she asked politely. It was not, after all,
his
fault, not precisely, anyway. By such means did God remind her of her duty.

"I am the herald for Princess Sapientia."

"Sapiential"

"I was meant to ride in half a day before her, to make sure her lodgings were properly prepared, but my horse came up lame, so I am
—" He halted, silenced by the ring of harness and by the laughter and animated cheer of voices carried on the wind in a sudden lull. Lightning brightened the darkening sky; thunder, almost on top of them, cracked and rolled, shaking the shutters. It began to rain.

The riders appeared in the gate, laughing, untroubled by storm and rain. It was a small retinue, not above twenty riders together with several wagons and a number of servants walking beside, but clearly a noblewoman's party. A banner sodden with rain fluttered limply in the wind. The horses wore rich caparisons, and the soldiers were outfitted in good armor.

The princess rode at the front. Rosvita judged she could scarcely be more than four months gone, given that she had only ridden out on her heir's progress some six months ago, but the princess was of such a slight build that even through her heavy wool traveling tunic Rosvita could see the telltale swelling of her belly.

But the cleric's gaze skipped almost immediately away from the princess to the man riding with easy grace beside her.

Rosvita's mouth dropped open. Without any words being spoken, she
knew
this man was the father of Sapientia's as yet unborn child. Knew it, as she was meant to know, as all were meant to know, by the little gestures of intimacy he and the princess exchanged. Truth to tell, she was scandalized, although after so many years in the king's progress she had thought herself inured to scandal.

The Eagle, still beside her, grunted, acknowledging her surprise. "Not quite what anyone expected."

And yet, after a moment's consideration, Rosvita realized she was not at all surprised. Henry's grief had rendered him incapable of sending his eldest legitimate child on her way for her heir's progress, as was traditional. He had left that duty to another, to Judith, margrave of Olsatia and Austra.

This, of course, was the inevitable result.

SHE jammed the book into the saddlebag, cursing herself under her breath.
Why
must she continually betray herself? Wouldn't it be better to stop pretending to be what she was not
—a simple, uneducated Eagle? Why not confide in the woman? She looked trustworthy enough, and she was Ivar's sister.

Yet Rosvita had lived for many years in the circle of the king's progress. She could not be a simple woman, uncomplicated in the way Ivar was; she might involve herself in many intrigues unknown to Liath, dangerous to Liath. As a good church woman, surely she would not be sympathetic to tales of daimones and the forbidden knowledge of the mathematici.

/
would never know. I can never know whom to trust. That is why Da told me to
"Trust no one."

Thunder boomed. The entire stables shook under that great crack and rumbling roar. She jumped, startled, hating herself for being scared all the time. If only Hanna would return, but she could not expect Hanna for months. And with Hanna would come Wolfhere and his damnable questions and his watching eyes.

And yet, was not Rosvita more likely to be trustworthy than Wolfhere? Liath liked Wolfhere
—that was the worst of it—but she could never trust him. He had known both her mother and father. He knew what she was, and he wanted something from her, just as
Hugh
had wanted—

But she was not going to think about Hugh. She could not. Hugh looked like someone who could be trusted. Beautiful Hugh. She touched a hand to her cheek, remembering the pain when he hit her.

"You are free of Hugh," she whispered, if only to stop this pointless endless fruitless speculation.

Thunder cracked and rumbled on and on and on, directly overhead. She shuddered, seized by a sudden intense wave of fear, as if fear were a living being, a daimone that had set its claws into her and tightened them, drawing blood and entrails and sucking all the spirit out of her. Rain drummed on the roof.

Abruptly the doors to the stables opened and servants and horses flooded in. They talked all at once, chattering, excited, exuberant. She shrank back into the stable where her and Hathui's gear lay together. Hiding in shadow, she listened: Sapientia, sent off on her heir's progress after the battle at Kassel, had returned to the king's progress triumphantly pregnant with the child who, if born alive and healthy, would guarantee her claim to become ruler after her father.

On the heels of their arrival the hunters returned, escaping the full force of the storm. Every stall was needed to stable horses. Liath gathered up her and Hathui's meager bundles and hauled them up to the loft where she arranged them in a safe corner. It took time. It kept her out of the way. It made her just another anonymous servant, someone who would be overlooked. But not, alas, forever.

Hathui, wet through, came up the ladder and onto the plank floor. She wrung water out of her cloak. Her hair lay matted to her head and in streaks down her neck. "You're back!" she said with surprise. "I am."

"You should have been waiting for the king," scolded Hathui. Then, distracted by the stamp and bustle of folk below, she added, "I hear Princess Sapientia has returned, though I haven't seen her."

"I haven't seen her either," said Liath. "She and her party must have been riding just behind me."

"They came in by the western road." Hathui gathered her saddlebags and bedroll. "I'm off to Quedlinhame to announce the news to Queen Mathilda and Mother Scholastica. You must go now and attend the king.
At once."

Liath nodded dutifully. She nudged her saddlebags into the corner and threw her bedroll over them to conceal them. Hathui hoisted her bedroll over her shoulders and, with a brisk nod at Liath, climbed back down the ladder. Liath followed.

Rain pounded outside. She paused as Hathui got a new horse, freshly saddled. Ducking out by a side door, she hesitated under the eaves as water coursed down from the thatch roof and puddled at her feet, as rain pummeled the dry-packed earth of the courtyard into a shallow sea of mud. Hathui, coming outside by the main stable doors, swung onto her horse and forged out through the open gate into the teeth of the storm. Liath gazed across the courtyard at the whitewashed wall of one long side of the great hall, where all the living and feasting and sleeping went on. It looked no different than it had an hour ago, when she had entered hoping to find solitude there. But now, as if brought by the storm, she felt that wave of fear again, such a hideous swell of dread that her knees almost gave out under her.

She must not give in to the old fear. She touched the hilt of her sword, her "good friend," and shifted her shoulders to feel the comfortable weight of her bow,
Seeker of Hearts,
and her quiver full of arrows.

She braced herself against the wall, then thrust forward into the storm, dashing as fast as she could across the sloppy ground. She reached the other side without being too thoroughly drenched, and a Lion standing guard under the protection of the eaves gave her a smile for her trouble and opened the door. Warmth and smoke roiled out. She stepped up to enter the hall.

It was much changed now. The industrious clerics had been overwhelmed by loud, wet, laughing, bragging courtiers, noble folk newly ridden in from the hunt. Though a large chamber, the hall seemed cramped, reeking with the smell of wet wool and sweaty, jovial men and women. Liath weaved her way through them toward the hearth at the other end of the hall, where the king's chair stood. With each step, dread clawed in her, a sharp-fingered hand digging through her soul, groping up the paved streets of her city of memory on the track of her sealed tower. She had to force each foot forward, one step after the next.