Prince of Dogs

“The Seven Sleepers,” Liath murmured, memory stirring. “Beware the Seven Sleepers.” Or so Da had written. “I only know what he wrote in the book.”



“You’ve never heard the story as related in Euseb?’s Ecclesiastical History?”



“Nay, I’ve not read Euseb?.”



“In the time of the persecution of Daisanites by the Emperor Tianothano, seven young people in the holy city of Saïs took refuge in a cave to gain strength before they presented themselves for martyrdom. But the cave miraculously sealed over, and there they were left to sleep.”



“Until when?”



“Euseb? doesn’t say. But that is not the only place I have heard that name. Do you know of a Brother Fidelis, at Hersford Monastery?”



“I do not.”



“‘Devils visit me in the guise of scholars and magi,’” quoted Rosvita, recalling the conversation vividly, “‘tempting me with knowledge if only I would tell them what I knew of the secrets of the Seven Sleepers.’”



“Were they the ones—?” Liath broke off. Wind rustled the canvas of tents, and she was suddenly reminded of the daimone who had stalked her on the empty road. She shuddered. “I don’t know what to do,” she murmured, afraid again. Da always said: “The worst foe is the one you can’t see.”



Rosvita extended a hand in the fashion of her kind, a deacon about to offer a blessing. “There are others better able to advise you than I. You must think seriously about making your way to the convent of St. Valeria.”



“How can I?” Liath whispered, remembering her vision of stern Mother Rothgard. “The arts of the mathematici are forbidden.”



“Forbidden and condemned. But it would be foolish of the church not to understand such sorcery nevertheless. Mother Rothgard at St. Valeria is not a preceptor I would wish to study under. She has little patience and less of a kind heart. But I have never heard it whispered that she is tempted by her knowledge. If you cannot bring yourself to trust me, then go there, I beg you.” She glanced behind toward her servants. “I must return to the train, or they will wonder why I am missing. Morning comes soon.”



She paused only to stare at Liath, as if hoping to read into her soul. Then she left.



Liath was too stunned to move. Her arms ached where they clasped the book, and one corner of the book pinched her stomach, digging into her ribs. She stood there breathing in and out with the breath of the night. A flash of white startled her and she spun to see a huge owl come noiselessly to rest on the torn-up ground just beyond the nimbus of lantern light that illuminated the awning of King Henry’s pavilion. It stared at her with great golden eyes, then, as suddenly, launched itself skyward and vanished into the night.



“Liath.”



Of course he knew.



She didn’t turn to face him. She couldn’t bear to.



“You’ve stolen the book,” he said, astonishment more than accusation in his voice. “I left the field as soon as it was clear we’d won the battle and rode all the way back to the train, only to find it missing. How did you manage it? What magic did you employ?”



She would not turn to face him, nor would she answer him, so he grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her round to slap her so hard that guards looked up from their station by the awning.



But they knew the silhouette of a noble lord by his bearing and his clothes, and they knew she was only a common Eagle. With a few coughs, they looked away again. It was none of their business.



Furious, he took her by the elbow to drag her away, but her feet were rooted to the earth. She could not struggle, she could not fight, she could not flee. Her cheek stung.



Ai, Lady, was he using sorcery on her? But then what had Da protected her from, if not against this? He had protected her against other forms of magic. Why had he never protected her against Hugh?



“Damn you, Liath,” he said, sliding down that slippery slope to anger. “It is my book and you are my slave. Tell me so. Repeat it back to me, Liath. ‘I am your slave, Hugh.’ You will never escape me.”



Had Hugh plumbed her soul far enough down, had he imprisoned her heart so tightly in the frozen tower, that he could control the rest of her at his will?



She was helpless. She would never break free.



As his grip tightened, her boots shifted on the ground, failing, falling; she began to slide into the darkness.



“Say it, Liath.”



Too stupified by fear even to weep, she whispered the only word that she could force out of her throat: “Sanglant.”