The Gathering Storm

Page 4

Sometimes it was difficult to remember that the world kept on although she’d been frozen in place.
When she did not speak, Ingo answered. “Will we be turning north to Gent?”
“Quedlinhame is closer,” objected Hanna wearily. “We’ll be another ten days or more on the road if we turn north to Gent.”
Thiadbold frowned, still watching her. “Prince Sanglant charged us to deliver his message, and the king’s Lions, to his sister and none other. We must follow Princess Theophanu.”
The others murmured agreement, but Hanna, remembering duty, touched the emerald ring on her finger that King Henry himself had given her as a reward for her loyalty. Duty and loyalty were the only things that had kept her alive for so long. “So Prince Sanglant said, but what will serve King Henry best? The king needs to know what has transpired in his kingdom. His sister rules over Quedlinhame convent. We might deliver ourselves to Mother Scholastica with no shame. She will know what to do.”
“If Prince Sanglant had wanted us to deliver his message to Mother Scholastica, he could have sent us to her. It seems to me he meant his message, and these Lions, for Theophanu.”
“Not for Henry?” Rising, she winced at the painful ache in her hips, still not healed after the bad fall she had taken fourteen days ago during the battle at the Veser River. Pain had worn her right through, but she had to keep going. “Is your loyalty to the king, or to his bastard son?”
“Hanna!” Folquin’s whisper came too late.
Thiadbold studied her, a considering frown still curving his lips. She liked Thiadbold better than most; he was a good captain, even-tempered and clever, and unflappable in battle. The Lions under his command trusted him, and Prince Sanglant had brought him into his councils. “I beg pardon for saying so,” he said finally, “but it’s the chains you stubbornly carry of your own will that weigh you down the most. No use carrying stones in your sack if you’ve no need to.”
“I’ll thank you, Captain, to leave me to walk my own road in peace. You didn’t see the things I saw.”
“Nay, so I did not, nor would I wish any person to see what you saw, nor any to suffer it, but—”
She limped away, unwilling to hear more. He swore and hurried after her.
“Truce, then,” he said as he came up beside her. “I’ll speak no more on this subject, only I must warn you—”
“I pray you, do not.”
He raised his hands in surrender, and his lips twisted in something resembling a smile but concealing unspoken words and a wealth of emotion. A spark of feeling flared in her heart, unbidden and unexpected. She had to concede he was well enough looking, with broad shoulders and that shock of red hair. Was it possible the interest he had taken in her over the last two weeks, after the battle and then once Prince Sanglant had sent them away from the main army to track down Theophanu, was more than comradely? Was he, however mildly, courting her? Did she find him attractive?
But to think of a man at all in that way made her think of Bulkezu, and anger and hatred scoured her clean in a tide of loathing.
Maybe Bulkezu had died of the wound to his face that he had received at the Veser. Maybe it had festered and poisoned him. But her Eagle’s Sight told her otherwise.
She halted beside a pile of wood under the spreading branches of an oak tree that stood at the edge of the forest. Acorns slipped under her feet. Most of the wood had been split by the Lions and taken away to feed campfires, but a few unsplit logs remained. Thiadbold crossed his arms, not watching her directly, and said nothing. There was still enough light to distinguish his mutilated ear, the lobe cut cleanly away and long since healed in a dimple of white scar tissue. He had a new scar on his chin, taken at the Veser.
Ai, God, so many people had died at the hands of Bulkezu.
Rolling a log into place between several rocks, she grabbed the ax and started chopping. Yet not even the gleeful strike of the ax into wood could cut the rage and sorrow out of her.
The wind gusted as a hard rain swept over them. Soldiers scrambled for the shelter of their canvas tents. She retreated under the sheltering canopy of the oak. Out in the open, campfires wavered under the storm’s force. One went right out, drowned by the heavy rain, and the dozen others flickered and began to die. Distant lightning flashed, and a few heartbeats later, thunder cracked and rumbled.
“That came on fast,” remarked Thiadbold. “Usually you can hear them coming.”
“I felt it. They should have taken shelter sooner.”
“So must we all. Prince Sanglant is a man who hears the tide of battle before the rest of us quite know what is about to hit us. He’s like a hound that way, hearing and smelling danger before an ordinary man knows there’s a beast ready to pounce. If he fears for the kingdom, if he fears that his father will not listen while black sorcery threatens Wendar, then I, for one, trust his instinct.”