The Gathering Storm
Page 148

Six men sat cross-legged on rugs and pillows near the musicians, all of them seated on the left-hand side of the circular tent. One was young and effortlessly handsome with features that resembled a younger Bulkezu. He rested his hand on a pair of wings constructed out of griffin feathers and, like the others, faced the right side of the tent where the three mothers of Bulkezu sat upright on two couches. The stiff posture of the men reminded him of Bulkezu, wrapped in chains but sitting bolt upright.
In contrast, Sapientia reclined at her ease beside the youngest of the mothers. A slave girl massaged the Wendish princess’ bare feet.
“Brother!” she cried without sitting up to greet him properly. “I expected you sooner!”
The three mothers of Bulkezu did not greet him. Although one was a maid, one middle-aged, and one an enormously fat crone, they looked mightily similar, as if they were three ages of the same woman in three different bodies. Had one of the older two actually spawned Bulkezu, giving birth to him out of her own womb?
He did not know, nor did he have Zacharias here to interpret their customs and speech for him. Sapientia and her new allies had him at a disadvantage.
The slave woman from Salia crossed to stand behind the mothers’ couch. Indeed, only slaves remained standing. He caught the eye of the griffin warrior. With the merest tightening of one eye, as though he wished to grin but dared not, the young man tossed him a pillow embroidered with a red-and-gold griffin. Sanglant sank down cross-legged, mirroring the casual pose of the other men. Hathui hunkered down beside the entrance. Breschius bowed his head, still holding the lamp, and remained standing.
“The mothers of Bulkezu are displeased,” said Sapientia. She sipped at a bowl half full of the fermented milk they quaffed like ale, and after she was done, handed it to a black-haired girl no more than ten or twelve years of age.
The mothers of Bulkezu watched him. They never blinked. They might have been carved in stone: maid, mother, crone, implacable and morose.
“We are traveling too slowly,” continued Sapientia. “We have to spend too much time setting up and taking down camp each day because you insist that your army uses the big tents. They want to know why the western soldiers are such weaklings.”
“These western soldiers defeated their great begh and their powerful army.”
“Under Bayan’s leadership! With the aid of Ungrians, who have left us.”
“I won the battle, Sapientia, however bravely Bayan fought. Bulkezu remains my prisoner.”
“Only because you betrayed me.”
“Because you are the strongest piece on the chessboard. No other has as much weight as Bulkezu, to achieve our ends. You agreed to this yourself.”
“Maybe you tell yourself I agreed to deliver myself to the Pechanek as a hostage. If you do, you are lying. You coerced me. I had no choice.”
Drink and anger brought her emotions to the surface where, like a broad path through the forest, her thoughts were easily traced: consternation, pride, frustrated anger, shame.
“But that doesn’t mean I am helpless, Brother. I am honored here as I deserve. If I were commanding the army, we would not suffer these troubles. You should have got rid of all our horses. The steppe horses are better. You’re only slowing us down by having to kill so many. What a waste of horseflesh! You’ll lose the entire army before we reach the hunting grounds!”
“We have lost five men out of eight hundred.”
“Winter isn’t over yet!”
“Where are your Wendish attendants, Sister? I have not seen Brigida or Everelda in many days, nor any of your serving women.”
She changed color, flushed face bleaching to white. Her hands trembled as she took the shallow bowl from the slave girl, swallowed a healthy draught, lowered the bowl, looked at him, lifted the bowl again, and drained it.
The slave woman leaned forward to whisper into the ear of the crone, and the old woman lifted a hand in a gesture of command. The fiddle player set his instrument vertically on its spike and sawed a drone on its string. All the Quman in the tent listened intently as, after an interminable prelude featuring only that drone, the other musician began to sing in a high-pitched, nasal voice.
Although he had made some effort to learn the rudiments of the Quman tongue, Sanglant found it difficult to pick out individual words: eyes, spear, griffin, and the ubiquitous references to death and rivers, usually together. Now and again, to break the monotony of a song whose melody did not seem to span more than five notes, the man lifted a scrap of birch bark to his lips and imitated the calls of birds.
His thoughts wandered.