In the Ruins
Page 71

She scanned the vale. In the shadows to the east she saw now a peculiar wagon built into a tiny house. Even veiled by shadows its colors gleamed. It alone of every object she had glimpsed in the last ten or twelve days was not coated with a layer of ashy dust. Either it had been washed clean, or the dust could find no purchase there. Sorcery works in strange ways.
“It’s Sorgatani!”
Her tongue was dry. Her vision blurred, and she swayed as the exhaustion brought on by their long walk combined with a flash of anxiety to make her knees weak and her hands damp. She had yearned to meet this mysterious stranger again and yet she feared to meet one who had laid such a frightening obligation on Hanna’s head. What did it mean to be the luck of a Kerayit shaman? It seemed she was about to find out.
“As for the others,” said Rosvita, “there in that wagon resides the pagan sorcerer we are not allowed to see. This troop of soldiers is led by Lady Bertha, who is Margrave Judith’s second daughter. They accompanied Prince Sanglant’s wife to the shores of the Middle Sea to combat the Holy Mother Anne. It seems they emerged from the crown into the midst of Anne’s camp and were set upon. In the battle, Liath was separated from the others and lost. The rest escaped. They have wandered these lands since the cataclysm, seeking news of Liath, if she yet lives.”
These words flowed past Hanna, who heard little and comprehended less as she stared at the wagon and its bright patterned walls, where lion and antelope and horse figures loped into an unseen but understood vista beyond the sight of mortal kind, known only to those who have walked between the worlds and mounted the pole of the world tree into the heavens. The utterance of Liath’s name acted as a hook and yanked her back to herself, a fish floundering out of water.
“Liath was here? What happened to her?”
“That you must ask the one you call Sorgatani. Fewer than half of Lady Bertha’s soldiers survived the battle. Come, you are wanted.”
A powerfully built woman strode up. She carried herself with the arrogance of noble birth, a thing so unconscious that Hanna knew at once this soldierly-looking female must be Margrave Judith’s daughter. There was little resemblance between her and her mother, and even less to her beautiful half brother.
“This is the Eagle?”
“I am Hanna, my lady. I serve the Emperor Henry.”
“Emperor! Well, I hope his quest for Taillefer’s crown has served him well, but I fear he has only served the plots and plans of those who ensorcelled him.”
“I fear so, my lady.”
She beckoned, and a pair of soldiers showed Hanna to the stump of a tree hollowed and marked by ax blows, where an armorer plied his trade mending armor. Lady Bertha followed them and watched with interest as Hanna laid her chain across the log and leaned away, grimacing, as the men took turns hammering at the links until one shattered.
“You can manage with that for now,” said the lady. “Go on, then. Sorgatani is anxious to see you.”
“Yes, my lady. How did you know how to find me?”
“Hanna,” said Breschius.
She followed him. Rather than leading her first to the isolated wagon, he took her aside to the rim of the pool, where a naturally stepped rock ledge gave access to the water just out of sight of the main camp.
“You must wash first,” he said. “You can’t come into her presence so dirty as you are. I’ll get clean clothing for you.”
“Where will any of you have clean clothing?” She gestured toward the camp. “It looks as rustic as the hideout of bandits.”
“Wash,” he said, and left her there.
She stripped and carried her filthy tunic and leggings into the water with her. It was cold enough, God knew, and the water more bracing than the chilly air, but nevertheless with her teeth chattering and her eyes stinging she endured it and scrubbed her hair and scalp with her fingers and rubbed down her skin as well as she could, crying and laughing together because it hurt to get clean. The shackles on her wrists and ankles had rubbed her skin raw in spots, but after the first sharp pain, the ice of the water numbed her injuries.
Breschius returned with a square of folded cloth draped across his left forearm, held in place with his stump pressing it down from above. He chimed when he walked. It seemed he wore anklet bells as well as the belled bracelet. He placed the clothing on the rock and sat with his back to her at the top of the stair-step ledge. His hair, cut short, was clean, and his clothing had been washed and mended. Even his hand was not as dirty as those of the soldiers she had seen working and loitering in camp.