The Burning Stone

And indeed he saw travelers on the road, a retinue fit for a grand lady or a nervous merchant hauling spices and silks from the east: a half dozen wagons and a troop of some thirty mounted soldiers and perhaps as many on foot. They were coming from the south in a line that had gotten rather strung out along the way, in part because heavy snow still blocked portions of the road and the wagons were having a hard time getting through. Now, the vanguard turned in to the hostel, and several tiny figures emerged from one of the buildings to greet them.



A banner opened in the breeze, revealing the lion, eagle, and dragon of Wendar. “Lord and Lady!” He heard his own voice tremble as he examined the riders making their way below. “It’s Theophanu. Ai, God, look there! It’s Captain Fulk and his men.”



He had learned to make quick decisions. In battle, how swiftly and resolutely you moved often meant the difference between victory and defeat.



“This may be our only chance,” he said, “for it’s clear they’ve hidden the path and we can’t come through without Jerna’s aid. You go on, Heribert. I have to go back to get Liath and Blessing.”



“What do you mean?”



One thing he loved about a troop of good soldiers was that once they trusted you, they knew better than to ask stupid questions. “This is our chance to escape. You descend now, go to Theophanu, and tell her that I’m coming. If we’re pursued, we may have to fight.”



“But—but I can’t go! I’m an outlaw! I’m under censure by the church.”



“I don’t care what you’ve done in the past, Heribert. You’ve been a good friend to me, and I trust you. Throw yourself on Theophanu’s mercy. Tell her that I sent you and that I mean for you to reside under her protection, no matter what. Give her—” But he had nothing to give, not even a ring, nothing that she would know was incontrovertibly his, that he would never give up except in death. He had nothing, except their life together as children. “Remind her of the time we saved the robin’s eggs from Margrave Judith’s cat, and got that bastard Hugh a whipping for almost letting the cat drown.” He shoved Heribert forward. “Go!”



No soldier had ever resisted that tone. Even a cleric might find his feet moving before his mind had fully agreed.



Heribert stumbled down the path, fetched up in a drift of snow, arms waving like those of a jellyfish, slave to the currents he was caught up in. “I hate to leave you, my lord prince,” he called, looking as if he meant to turn around and come back.



“Heribert,” he shouted, almost beside himself, knowing when action was needed and talking of no use, “if it’s true about the Lost Ones, that they’re to return in an avalanche of fire and blood, then King Henry needs to know! He needs to know that my daughter is the great-great-grandchild of Taillefer! Damn it! Just use your wits. Go!”



Maybe Henry wouldn’t believe such an outrageous story, but it didn’t matter. Sanglant knew an opportunity when he saw one. He waited only long enough to see Heribert stagger on down the path. Then he turned and sped back up into the rocks. Jerna followed at his shoulder, agitated, plucking at him as if to haul him back, but he was in too much of a hurry to heed her now. He knew what burned in his heart: he was restless; he had recovered. His entire life he had lived as movement, striking when his enemy’s line was weak, training new Dragons, hunting, whoring—in all honesty he could scarcely call it anything else—riding from one skirmish to the next to protect his father’s kingdom. He wasn’t used to inaction, and it felt now as if he had finally woken up from a long, long sleep.



“Liath!” he cried as he slipped out from the hidden crevice with Jerna whimpering behind him, and burst into the meadow. Flowers bloomed in such profusion that the meadow seemed more like a garden, a peaceful paradise.



Except for the ugly stench of blood.



His Eika dog lay by the cottage, throat cut. Green-copper blood soaked into the grass.



Anne was waiting for him, standing patiently by the door with her hands clasped before her exactly in the manner of those of her namesake, St. Anne the Peaceful, whose image he had seen painted on one pier of Taillefer’s chapel in Autun. Her hound sat beside her, scratched up around the muzzle, skin stained with copperish fluid, but otherwise unharmed. It stiffened, growling when it saw Sanglant, but Anne stilled it with a touch on its head.



“Brother Heribert will have to take his chances,” she said, “but I was rather hoping you might run, too.”



He used a word so crude that at first he thought she hadn’t understood him, until she spoke.