The Gathering Storm

Page 96

They stopped at the foot of the steps, and there they waited, in silence.
In silence, Hanna studied the floor, strips of marble and porphyry set into expanding and contracting spirals. The ceiling arched high above, dimly perceived, each span glittering with intricate mosaics. Even the single chair had its fascination, the dark wood grain inlaid with ivory rosettes and geometric patterns made of gems mounted in gold. She had never seen so many amethysts in her life.
The servant coughed, clearing his throat. Hugh had closed his eyes, as though praying. But she didn’t like to look at him. Looking at him reminded her of Bulkezu.
“Is there any man handsomer than you?” she had asked Bulkezu.
“One. I saw him in a dream.”
This could be a dream, except that from outside, through the windows, she heard the sound of a gardener raking dirt.
Better to be a pig starving in the forest than a fat rooster strutting in the farmyard when feasting time comes. She had once envied Liath for attracting Hugh’s attentions. She knew better now.
Bells tinkled as a cleric stepped through the curtain and held it aside for a woman to pass. The lady wore a white robe overlaid with an embroidered silk stole falling over both shoulders, its fringed ends sweeping the floor. A gold torque shone at the woman’s throat, and on her head, almost concealing her pale hair, she wore a golden cap. A huge black hound padded at her heels, growling softly as it lifted its head.
Hanna sank to her knees. She had never thought she would stand before the skopos, the most powerful person on Earth, closest to God Themselves. She bowed her head and clasped her hands so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Her bruised knee was already hurting, but she dared not look up into the face of the Holy Mother.
“Brother Hugh.” The skopos’ voice was neither soft nor loud. It did not ring sharply, yet neither did it carry a tone of merciful compassion. “You may approach.”
Hugh ascended the steps and knelt before her to kiss her ring. When he stepped back, she sat. The hound lay over her feet and rested its head on massive paws, but it gazed at Hanna as at an enemy, ready for her to bolt or to attack, so that it might have the pleasure of rending her limb from limb and gnawing on her bones.
Hadn’t she seen this hound before, or one very like it?
“Who is this Eagle?” asked the skopos.
“She is called Hanna, Holy Mother. She comes from the North Mark of Wendar. In earlier years she called herself a friend to Liathano. She has recently ridden south bearing a message from Princess Theophanu, nothing we have not heard before except that she herself spoke with Prince Sanglant many months ago. He is now ridden east with a portion of the army that defeated the Quman.”
“To what end does he ride east, Eagle?”
Dared she speak the truth?
“I am only an Eagle, Holy Mother,” she said, surprised she had enough breath to form audible words. I am only a pig, hiding in the forest. “For many months I was held captive by Prince Bulkezu of the Pechanek tribe, the leader of the Quman army. When Prince Sanglant and Prince Bayan defeated Bulkezu at the Veser River, they freed me. Prince Sanglant sent me west to bring news of his victory to his father.”
There was so much else she could say, but in the end, it came down to this: Did she hate Sanglant for sparing Bulkezu more than she feared the power of those who might have ensorcelled the king? Even if Hugh had done what Hathui accused him of, did that mean that the Holy Mother was involved? She didn’t know whom could she trust or who was most dangerous.
“Your Excellence,” began Hugh, “this Eagle brought news about Prince Sanglant and the folk who travel with him. I think it worthwhile to question her closely about—”
A movement by the skopos, glimpsed by Hanna but not really seen, stopped him.
“Are you one of those who bears the Eagle’s Sight?”
The question surprised her. “Yes, Holy Mother.”
“Who taught you?”
“An Eagle called Wolfhere, Holy Mother.”
“Wolfhere.” A complex hint of emotion colored her voice.
“When did you last see Wolfhere?”
“He rides with Prince Sanglant, Holy Mother.”
“So he did.”
That delicate place between her shoulder blades prickled, as though an archer stood at the far doors with bow raised and an arrow sighted at her back.
Did, which meant not any longer. Whose side was Wolfhere on?
The earth lurched sideways beneath her. The hound barked once before settling beneath the throne. A grinding noise shuddered through the palace and faded as quickly as it had come, draining away to silence. The sound of raking stopped, leaving nothing but faint echoes, more a memory of the sound than the sound itself.