The Gathering Storm
Page 244

“To split up?” he asked, knowing his lines as well as Hathui knew hers.
“When the storm comes, my lord, no one will be safe. Those who support the king and Wendar must know what to do. If they are not prepared, then whatever force convulses the Earth will be echoed by terrible strife among those who suffer and are afraid.”
Li’at’dano beckoned Hathui forward. “You are wise, Daughter,” said the old shaman. “I would look at you more closely, for it is not given to every creature to learn wisdom.”
“I thank you, Holy One,” murmured Hathui, but she glanced at Sanglant as if to say, “save me!” No one doubted Hathui’s courage, but it was clear that the Horse people, and particularly the ancient one, made her nervous.
“Go on,” said Sanglant, not wanting any of his people to show hesitation, and Hathui—not without trepidation—nudged her horse closer to Liath’s on the grass between the two groups, human and centaur, allied, yet in so many ways separate.
The shaman examined Hathui for a space before turning to Liath. “She is a worthy daughter. Will you give her to me as part of our bargain?”
“She is sworn to the regnant,” said Sanglant irritably. “One of his chosen Eagles. She must return to his hand at the end of her flight.”
“A pity,” mused Li’at’dano, but she made no further claim.
Liath saw the trap, but it was already sprung. “Will you and I not travel together?” she asked Sanglant.
Sanglant had never done a harder thing than what he did now. “To defeat Anne we need an army greater than the seven hundreds we have here. To defeat Anne we need an army greater even than that with which we defeated Bulkezu. A griffin brings me more than feathers to cut through the magic wielded by our enemies. It can bring me an army as well.”
Liath opened her mouth to protest, then fell silent. He went on.
“I must ride west to gather as many Quman as I can. Margrave Waltharia holds troops in readiness, waiting only for my return. From the marchlands I will turn south and draw more Wendish troops as I go. Brother Breschius assures me that the Brinne Pass remains passable for much of the year, if the weather holds fair. I’ll cross that way into Aosta, and march on Darre to free my father.”
“But—!” Color had leached from her face, leaving her gray with shock, and her hands clenched the reins until her knuckles turned white. Her horse minced under her, sensing her tension. “But that means we must—”
She could not speak the word. Neither could he. He could scarcely bear to think of it: That means we must part. Must separate again, not knowing how many months or years would pass until they met. Not knowing if they would ever meet.
It gave him no pleasure to twist the knife into her belly. “It has to be done this way. Do you believe that a griffin can cross through the crowns?”
She shook her head despairingly. “Nay. It seems likely its feathers will cut the threads of the spell. That way lies disaster for all who attempt the crossing.”
“Anne has woven her net well. She controls not just sorcery, and the crowns, but Henry’s and Adelheid’s armies as well. We must match her. This is the only way.”
She shut her eyes and said nothing, because she knew he was right. As much as he hated it, this was the only way.
“There remains one thing more, Holy One,” he said, unable to bear her silence and knowing that if Liath had a chance to speak he would weaken. He gestured toward the wagon.
“What of my daughter?”
Li’at’dano waited, and waited, but Liath neither spoke or opened her eyes. Tears wet her cheeks, but she made no sound, only sat there, rigid and suffering.
At last, the shaman inclined her head to Sanglant with a touch of disdain, yet just perhaps in the manner of a teacher acknowledging a pupil’s apt question. “I have pondered deeply about the child. It may be I have thought of a way that will give us time to save her.”
3
ALTHOUGH Anna was busy making ready to go, Matto still found time to pester her.
“Later, in the night, we could sneak out into the grass.”
“And be eaten by the griffins?”
“The prince did it. Out in the grass.”
She looked at him, and he flushed, shamefaced, and hoisted a chest into the back of one of the wagons.
Thiemo stalked over. “Are you bothering her?”
“Is it any of your business?”
They both seemed to have puffed themselves up with air, trying to look bigger and bulkier than they were, although indisputably Matto had the broader shoulders while Thiemo stood half a hand taller.