Prince of Dogs
Page 61

With anger came revelation: All those years she had thought him a failed sorcerer when instead he had poured that power into keeping her hidden.
“I swear to you, Da,” she whispered, standing beside her horse with her eyes turned to the heavens where, perhaps, his soul looked down upon her, trapped on the mortal earth, “that I’ll find out what it was that killed you.”
“Nay, Liath, you must be careful,” she imagined him saying to her. He was always so afraid.
And for good reason. Was it the aetherical daimone itself that stalked them, or a human sorcerer, a maleficus, who had drawn it from its sphere above the moon and coerced it to do his bidding?
“I’ll be like a mouse,” she murmured. “They’ll never see me. I promise you, Da. I’ll never let them catch me.” With that, in her imagination, he seemed to be content.
A distant flock of sheep crested a rise and disappeared out of her view, an amorphous body herded by unseen dogs and a single shepherd. She did not want to stay here, where the creature had come so close. Apprehensive now and still unnerved by that unearthly sight and by the horrible, sick fear that had come over her when its inhuman voice spoke her name, she mounted and rode on. On this, her third day out of Quedlinhame, she could expect to come by nightfall to the palace at Goslar, so Hathui had told her. Please the Lady that she did; she did not want to sleep alone this night. And from Goslar, if the weather held, another four days of steady riding would bring her to Osterburg, the city and fortress favored by Duchess Rotrudis.
But when she rode into Goslar that evening, it was to find a large retinue already inhabiting it. A groom took her horse and she was brought at once into the great hall. There, seated on a chair carved with dragons and draped with gold pillows embroidered with black dragons whose curling shape and fierce demeanor echoed those of the King’s Dragons, waited Duchess Rotrudis herself.
“What message does Henry send to me?” she asked without preamble as soon as Liath knelt before her. She did not resemble those of her siblings Liath had seen: Henry, Mother Scholastica, and Biscop Constance; she was not handsome nor had she any elegance of form. Short, stout, and with hands as broad and red as a farmer’s, she had a nose that looked as if it had been broken one too many times, and old pockmarks scarred her cheeks. Even so, no one would have mistaken her for anything but one of the great princes of the land.
“King Henry speaks these words, my lady,” began Liath dutifully. “‘From Henry, King over Wendar and Varre, to Rotrudis, Duchess of Saony and Attomar and beloved kinswoman, this entreaty. Now that winter is upon us, it is time to think of next summer’s campaign. We must drive the Eika out of Gent, but for this endeavor we will need a great army. Fully half of my forces died at Kassel. I have taken what I can out of Varre, and asked for more, but you, as well, must bear this burden with the others. Send messengers to your noble ladies and lords that they will increase their levies and send troops to Steleshame after the Feast of St. Sormas. From this staging place we will attack Gent. Let it be done. These words, spoken in the presence of our blessed mother, represent my wishes in the matter.’”
Rotrudis snorted, took a draught of wine, and called for more wood on the hearth. “Fine words,” she said indignantly, “when it is my duchy that the Eika ravage now. They are not content with Gent. My own city of Osterburg has been attacked!”
“Attacked!” The memory of Gent’s fall hit Liath as hard as a sword’s blow, and she swayed back, horrified.
“We drove them off,” said the duchess bluntly. “It was only ten ships of the damned savages.” She handed the gold cup to her cupbearer, a pretty young woman dressed in a plain gown of white linen. With a grunt, she heaved herself up and walked over to look down on Liath. Pressing the tip of her walking stick under Liath’s chin, she lifted the Eagle’s head up so she could examine her face. “Are you some relation to Conrad the Black?” she demanded. “His by-blow, perhaps?”
“No, my lady. I am no relation to Duke Conrad.”
“Well-spoken, I see,” said the duchess. “Too old to be his get, in any case.” She had a limp and one swollen foot, and when she sat heavily down in her chair, the pillows sighed beneath her. A servant hurried forward to prop the foot up on a padded stool. All along the walls rich tapestries hung, a sequence depicting a band of young ladies on the hunt, first after a stag, then a panther, and last a griffin. “You tell this, then, to my dear brother Henry. Good God, where is he now, dare I ask?”
“He and the court have ridden south—”