The Burning Stone

Page 22

Except Sanglant wasn’t dead.
“If only I could have taken you with me to Darre instead of Hanna,” Wolfhere murmured. Then he grinned wryly. “Not that I have any complaint of Hanna, mind you, but do not forget—as I have once or twice to my regret—that we Eagles do not control our own movements. We must go as and where the king sends us.”
“If you dislike the king’s command upon you, then why do you remain an Eagle?”
“Ah, well.” His smile gave little away. “I have been an Eagle for many years.”
They rode on for a time in silence as the afternoon sun drew shadows across the road. A red kite glided into view along the treetops and vanished as it swooped for prey. Vines trailed from overhanging branches to brush the track.
“Is she well?” Liath asked finally.
“She is as she ever was.”
“You might as well tell me nothing as tell me that. I hardly remember her. Ai, Lady! Can you imagine what this means to me?”
“It means,” said Wolfhere with a somber expression, “that I will lose you as an Eagle.”
It struck her suddenly and profoundly. “I’m no longer kinless. I have a home.” But she could make no picture in her mind of what that home might look like.
“You will become what your birthright grants you, Liath. Although how much Bernard taught you I don’t know, since you will not tell me.” Though there was a hint of accusation in his voice, he did not let it show on his face.
“The art of the mathematici, which is forbidden by the church.”
“But which is studied in certain places nevertheless. Will you go with me, Liath, when I leave the king?”
She could not answer. This, of all choices, was the one she had never expected to have.
By late afternoon they heard a rhythmic chopping and soon came to half-cleared land, undergrowth burned out between the stumps of trees. A goshawk skimmed the clearing. Squirrels bounded along branches, chittering at these intruders. Just past a shallow stream they came to a natural clearing now inhabited by three cottages built of logs and several turf outbuildings. A garden fenced with stout sticks ran riot alongside the central lane, which was also the road. Several young men labored to build a palisade, but when they saw the Eagles, they set down their tools to stare. One whistled to alert the rest, and soon Liath and Wolfhere were surrounded by the entire community: some ten hardy adult souls and about a dozen children.
“Nay, you can’t go this day,” said the eldest woman there, Old Uta, whom the others deferred to. “You’ll not come clear of the Bretwald before nightfall. Better you bide here with us than sleep where the beasts might make off with you. As it is, we’ve a wedding to celebrate tonight. It would be our shame not to show hospitality to guests at such a time!”
The young men put on deerskin tunics and then set up a long table and benches outdoors while the women and girls prepared a feast: baked eggs; rabbit; a haunch of venison roasted over the fire; a salad of greens; coarse brown bread baked into a pudding with milk and honey roasted mushrooms; and as many berries as Liath could eat without making herself sick, all washed down with fresh goat’s milk and a pungent cider that went immediately to her head. She found it hard to concentrate as Wolfhere regaled the foresters with tales of the Alfar Mountains and a great avalanche and of the holy city of Darre and the palace of Her Holiness the skopos, our mother among the saints, Clementia, the second of that name.
The bride was easy to recognize: the youngest daughter of Old Uta, she wore flowers in her braided hair and she sat on the bench of honor next to her husband. The bridegroom was scarcely more than a boy, and all through the meal he stared at Liath. There was something familiar about him, but she could not pin it down and no doubt it was only the strength of the cider acting on the astounding news Wolfhere had burdened her with that made her so dizzy.
Her mother was alive.
“Eagle,” said the young man, speaking up suddenly. “You were the one who led us out of Gent. Do you remember me? With no good humor, I’d wager. I’m the one as lost your horse, by the east gate.” Ruddy-cheeked from working in the sun, he looked little like the thin-faced lad who had wept outside Gent over losing her horse and losing his home that awful day; he had filled out through the chest and gotten rounder in the face. But his eyes had that same quick gleam.
“Ach, lad, lost a horse!” The men groaned and the women clucked in displeasure. “A horse! If we only had a horse to haul those logs, or even a donkey—”
“We could have traded a horse for another iron ax!”