“Tell me first, and in a few words, what is most important. Then I’ll hear your tale at length.”

“This, then, Your Highness. Sister Rosvita was taken prisoner in Darre because she witnessed the murder of Helmut Villam at the hand of Hugh of Austra.”

“Ah!” Theophanu sighed, with a grimace, but waved her hand to show Hanna must go on.

“I have heard the Eagle, Hathui, survived her journey and joined the company of Prince Sanglant.”

“She did. So it happens that all she reported is true?”

“Hathui would never lie.” But as she said the words, she remembered how she had doubted, and she was ashamed.

“Henry trusted her above all others. Her, and Villam, and Sister Rosvita. Go on.”

“When I reached Darre, I found King Henry altered. He was captive to his queen and to Hugh of Austra. Those among the schola loyal to Rosvita joined with me in fellowship. In the aftermath of a terrible earthquake, we helped Rosvita escape the dungeon. We fled north. Reaching the convent of St. Ekatarina, we took refuge, but we were pursued there by Lord Hugh. Then—” Long had they discussed this, but Rosvita had insisted on the truth. “Sister Rosvita and Mother Obligatia—she is the abbess who presided over St. Ekatarina—together they wove a crown. By this means we escaped. We came into the east, and found ourselves pursued by soldiers from the army of the skopos.”

“Holy Mother Anne?”

“Yes. These we fled, fearing for our lives—”

Many around her broke into speech, hearing the skopos maligned in such a manner, but Theophanu hushed them sternly. “Nay, let the Eagle speak. These accusations we have heard before, from my brother Sanglant, from the Eagle Hathui, and from Duchess Liutgard and Duke Burchard. Holy Mother Anne was party to the plot by which King Henry was infested with a daimone, made into a puppet so those who controlled him could speak words through his mouth.” She said it so coolly—as if it were only an interesting story she related to entertain the crowd—that it was only as Hanna looked around at the people crowded into the hall and saw how their posture and their gestures and their expressions turned angry, that the Eagle knew Henry’s death was truly mourned. She dared hope that the indignity thrust on him would be avenged.

“Go on, Hanna.” It was the first time the princess had used her name.

“Yes, Your Highness. We fled the army of the skopos, because she had come into the east in order to weave a spell into the crowns, to set herself against the coming cataclysm. We escaped her, but were captured by Arethousans. For many months we lived as their prisoners. In time we were brought to the camp of certain Arethousan lords, Lady Eudokia and Lord Alexandros. They were marching in rebellion against their emperor. It was there, my lady, that we found your sister Sapientia.”

“Alive?” The word was little more than a whisper.

“Married to King Geza of Ungria, who was now their ally.”

Theophanu laughed, then recovered so quickly that the lapse might never have happened. Around her, her company chattered, and the lady lifted a hand to ask them to quiet. “She has gone over to the enemy.”

Hanna let them chew on this statement for a while, all talking at once. Such an interpretation discredited Sapientia. Best not to protest, or make excuses. Or remind them that Sanglant had abandoned his sister in the camp of a worse enemy, the Pechanek Quman. Even if he had not meant her to come to grief, his actions had ruined her. It would be best for Sanglant if his court did not know the entire truth.

Instead, thinking of how much she had hated Bulkezu and how furious she had been to see Sanglant keep him alive because it was expedient, she sipped at a second cup of wine until all the amazed speculation ceased and they waited for her to go on.

“King Geza had pledged to take the throne of Wendar and Varre in Sapientia’s name, Your Highness,” Hanna said.

Theophanu nodded. “Of course. And his child by her on the throne after she was dead. Go on.”

“After the great tempest destroyed their camp, both armies fled. King Geza abandoned Sapientia, divorced her, and left her in the ruins of the camp.”

“Did he so?” the lady said without any trace of spite or glee. She might have been wood, untested by fire or flood, her face polished clean of emotion. Yet her court had fallen into a horrible, fascinated silence, hanging on every word. “What then?”

“We found her, for we had been abandoned as well.” She paused, and decided to skip her own ordeal, her second captivity among the Arethousans, although the memory of the ruins of that great city haunted her. “We walked north, and stumbled in our turn upon a company under the command of Lady Bertha of Austra.”