The Burning Stone
Page 44

“But Hugh means to protest the debt price. He’ll take the case before the king, and you know how the king hates Wolfhere. What if he gives me back to Hugh?”
“You don’t understand King Henry very well, do you?” said Hathui coolly. “Now come. There’s a place above the stables set aside for Eagles—and well protected by Lions. You’ll be safe to sleep there. Perhaps your head will be clearer in the morning.”
She followed Hathui meekly. “Prince Sanglant has nothing, you know,” said Hathui suddenly. “Nothing but what the king gives him, no arms, no horse, no retinue, no lands, no inheritance from his mother except his blood—and that is distrusted by most of the court.”
“Nothing!” Liath retorted, furious on his behalf that he could be judged and found wanting in such a crass material manner, then faltered. Hathui spoke truth in the only way that mattered outside the spiritual walls of the church. “But I don’t care,” she murmured stubbornly, and in response heard only Hathui’s gusting sigh.
In a way, it was a relief to find the stables tenanted by dozing Lions, a few Eagles, and by Wolfhere sitting outside on a log with a lantern burning at his feet while he ate supper. He looked mightily irritated but mercifully said nothing, only touched Hathui’s shoulder by way of greeting and whispered something into her ear which Liath could not hear. But she didn’t have Sanglant’s unnaturally acute hearing.
“Go to sleep, Liath,” he said stiffly once he deigned to acknowledge her. He was still angry. “We’ll speak in the morning.”
Shouts rang out from the distant hall, followed by laughter and a burst of song.
“They’re carrying bride and groom to their wedding bed,” said Hathui.
“Bride and groom?” asked Liath, startled. “Who is wed this night?” She could have been wed this night, by the law of consent. But it had happened too fast. She had to catch her breath before she took the irrevocable step.
Hathui laughed but Wolfhere only grunted, still annoyed. “I like this not,” he muttered.
“That there’s a wedding?” she asked, still confused.
“That you were blind to it and everything else going on hereabouts,” he retorted. “Go on, Hathui. The king will be looking for you.”
She nodded and left, her proud figure fading into the gloom.
Liath did not like to be alone with Wolfhere. He had a way of looking at her, mild but with a grim glint deep in his eyes, that made her horribly uncomfortable.
“I beg you, Liath,” he said, his voice made harsh by an emotion she could not identify, “don’t be tempted by him.”
Torches flared distantly and pipes skirled as drums took up a brisk four-square rhythm. Dancing had begun out in the yard. No doubt the celebration would last all night. Wolfhere scuffed at the dirt and took a sip of ale, then held out the cup as a peace offering.
“Hugh will ask the king to give me back to him,” she said abruptly.
Wolfhere raised an eyebrow, surprised. “So he will, I suppose. He threatened as much in Heart’s Rest the day I freed you from him.”
“The king hates you, Wolfhere. Why?”
The smile that quirked up his mouth was touched with an irony that made his expression look strangely comforting and, even, trustworthy: A man who faces his own faults so openly surely cannot mean to harm others for the sake of his own vanity or greed.
“Why?” he echoed her. “Why, indeed. It’s an old story and one I thought had been put to rest. But so it has not proved.”
Still she did not take the cup from him. “It has to do with Sanglant.”
“Everything has to do with Sanglant,” said Wolfhere cryptically, and would say no more.
2
THE day passed in quiet solitude. A heavy mist bound the circle of stones, cutting them off from the world beyond. The Aoi woman meditated, seated cross-legged on the ground, her eyes closed, her body as still as if no soul inhabited it. Once, Zacharias would have prayed, but he no longer had anyone to pray to. For part of the day he dozed; later, he plucked and gutted the two grouse the Aoi woman had shot at dawn.
It had been a great honor for his kinfolk when he, a freeholder’s son, had been ordained as a frater in the church by reason of his true singing voice, his clever tongue, and his excellent memory for scripture. But none of these were qualities the Quman respected in a man. They had cut so much from him that he could scarcely recall the man he had once been, proud and determined and eager to walk alone into the land of the savages to bring them into the Light of the Unities. It had all seemed so clear, then. He had had many names: son, nephew, brother. Brother Zacharias, a title his mother had repeated with pride. His younger sister had admired him. Would she admire him now?