“True enough,” reflected Bayan. “No news to us has come of the western duchies. Maybe they have troubles with Salia, too.”

“Maybe they do,” echoed Sanglant.

Anna could tell that he didn’t believe it. Anna could tell that something deeper was troubling him, and if the bold prince was troubled, then how could she possibly sleep? She tossed fitfully, dozing, waking, hearing a rumble of thunder that faded and did not sound again. The heat lingered, although a sprinkle cooled down the worst of the mugginess, thank God. After that, the erratic drip-drop of moisture trickling off leaves kept her awake. The river ran behind them, and once she heard voices raised in song, like the angels beginning their choir, but the rustle of wind through the autumn leaves muted the sound.

Like God’s glory, snatched away just as the fallen soul came within sight of it. Had she been wrong to let Lord Thiemo tell Blessing the story of the phoenix? What would the prince do when he found out that Blessing was already beginning to ask questions about the martyrdom of the blessed Daisan, and the glory of his Holy Mother, who is God of all Creation?

Surely it wasn’t wrong to tell the truth? Surely those young monks she had seen, with their paintings and their piety, hadn’t been lying? Surely it wasn’t a heresy, but the truth, concealed for so long. With the land itself torn by war and plague and famine, wasn’t it fittingly brought back into the light?

But she was only a common girl, struck dumb by God’s hand, recovered through a miracle, nursemaid to a princess by God’s will. How could she tell what was true and what was false? How could she know what was God’s will and what the Enemy’s lies? The only thing she really knew was that Prince Sanglant would be very, very angry when he found out about the stories Lord Thiemo was telling his daughter.

At long last dawn gave color to the air. Where the sun’s rays touched the ground, mist steamed up, making streamers of gauze among the trees. The river was cloudy with mist. She could barely see the other bank, although she heard the Lions at work, chopping, hammering, and swearing, as they prepared a blockade for the ford.

The army, stirring like an ill-tempered beast, made ready to march. Prince Sanglant kissed his daughter and sent her with her retinue to stand on the royal platform—the planks on which Sapientia and Bayan had held court the evening before—to preside as the army moved west in marching order. Anna stood behind Blessing’s chair while Heribert answered the young princess’ endless questions.

“Why isn’t my Daddy riding first? They don’t like him.”

“Nay, it is no insult to your father, sweetling. It is Princess Sapientia’s right and duty to lead the vanguard. She is King Henry’s heir and must prove herself as a leader.”

“Why?”

“If she hasn’t the luck and the leadership to command troops in battle, then she cannot reign.”

“But she’s married to Prince Bayan.”

“He’s a foreigner, who can only rule as consort, not as regnant, over the Wendish.”

“Why—?”

“Hush, Blessing, no more on this subject if you please. Sapientia commands two legions.”

“What is a legion?”

The army made a great deal of noise, horses neighing, men shouting, the tramp of feet, and the crack of branches as they pressed forward along the road, which wasn’t much more than a track through the forest barely wide enough to accommodate two wagons abreast.

“A legion is an old Dariyan term, from the old empire. It designates a unit of soldiers who fight under one high commander.”

“How many soldiers?” Blessing asked.

Anna tried to count as Sapientia’s Wendish cavalry rode past, in lines of four, but she lost track after forty.

“That depends on what authority you read,” said Heribert, slipping into that way of speaking he had when all his fine education grabbed him by the throat. At times like these, Anna found him difficult to understand. “Some say several thousand infantry—that’s foot soldiers—and a few hundred cavalry. Some say a thousand men, organized in ten centuries, or what we call cohorts, each group consisting of one hundred men.”

Sitting on the platform, the army seemed to take forever to go by. “Is that a thousand men?” asked Anna. She thought about this for a moment, remembering the sums Raimar and Suzanne had taught her when it came time to count up thread and wool and cloth so that you wouldn’t get cheated. “If it was two legions, then it would be two thousand men, wouldn’t it?” The number dizzied her. She had to shut her eyes and just listen to the fall of hooves on the track and the persistent drip of moisture from the damp leaves.