Zuangua laughed harshly, for it was obvious he could not understand one word Liutgard had said. “Peace? Nay, now it is time to make war. Who do you choose, Cousin? Humankind, or us?”

“Neither,” said Sanglant furiously. “Both.”

“Stand back, Liutgard,” said Henry in a stronger voice. He attempted to rise but could not. Blood leaked from the wound in his head. He choked on blood, coughing and spitting, and raised an arm. “Sanglant! Help me. Help me sit up at least.”

“Ai, God.” Sanglant knelt beside him, still weeping. “Father, you must rest.”

“Nay, I have rested long enough. I have suffered….” He coughed again; with each pulse of blood he grew weaker. Burchard groaned, and a captain helped him rise. The nobles drew closer to attend the king. “I have suffered under a spell! I saw Villam killed by traitors. God! God! My own dear wife conspired against me.”

“Adelheid?” croaked Burchard as he knelt on the other side of the king. He had taken off his helm. “Not Adelheid!”

“What do you mean, Your Majesty?” Liutgard asked, coming up behind Burchard. She glared at the Ashioi, who held their position, as ready to strike as she was. “Yet it’s true you were shining in a most unnatural way, there on the path. Is it true, what Sanglant claims? Were you ensorcelled and chained by a daimone?”

“Presbyter Hugh and Adelheid between them … with the approval of the Holy Mother … Anne … to force their own schemes forward. They thrust a creature into me … into the heart of me….” He shuddered. Blood pumped from the wound. He sagged into Sanglant’s arms. “Hurry,” he whispered. “Hurry. Listen!”

They crowded forward. Behind, Zuangua snorted at this display, but he held his place and his peace for the moment.

“These are my wishes … my last wishes … my dispensation, as is my right as regnant. All my life I have wished … but custom went against it.” His head grew heavier against Sanglant’s arm, yet through sheer force of will he kept speaking although his face grew ghastly pale under the weird orange-red light as his life drained out of him through the hole made by Zuangua’s spear. The shush of falling ash was the only sound beyond his labored breathing and the footfalls of men creeping closer to listen, to see, to seek comfort within the orbit of their dying king.

“What are you saying, Your Majesty?” asked Liutgard.

“My right… as king … to name my heir.”

“Princess Mathilda is your heir, Your Majesty,” said Burchard, troubled now, wiping ash from his face. “You named her yourself.”

“Under duress … even Sapientia not worthy. This one.” He reached across his chest, found Sanglant’s other arm, and clutched it tight. “This one. Swear to me. Give me your oath. You will follow Sanglant. He becomes regnant after me. Swear it!” He choked and convulsed, but he held on. “Swear it!”

They swore it, each one of them, because Henry was their king, the one they had followed all this way.

“Ah!” he said when last of all Burchard and Liutgard knelt and gave their oath. He looked up into Sanglant’s eyes. His own were free of any taint. “Ah! The pain is gone. My son. My beloved son.”

The light passed out of him. His soul was released, there one instant and in the next gone utterly.

Sanglant bowed his head, too stricken even to weep any longer. At first, the rustling seemed part of the strange night, more ash falling, perhaps, or leaves tickling down through dead and blasted branches. Then he looked up.

They had knelt, all of them; all but the Ashioi, who waited. Tears streaked Liutgard’s cheeks. Burchard sobbed silently, shoulders shaking. Beyond, as far back into the forest as Sanglant could see, captains and sergeants and men-at-arms knelt to honor their dead king.

Out of the gloom stumbled two recognizable figures—Lewenhardt and Hathui. The Eagle cried out and flung herself down beside Henry’s corpse.

“He died as himself,” said Sanglant as she wept, and she shook her head to show she’d understood because she could not speak through her grief. “He died as regnant.”

“Tell me, Cousin,” said Zuangua a little mockingly behind him. “What does this display of passion and weeping portend?”

Even Wichman had knelt, but he sprang up at the sound of Zuangua’s voice and with a roar leaped forward and ripped the imperial banner out of the hawk-woman’s grip. He stuck it into the ground behind Sanglant, and he laughed.

“What is your command, Your Majesty?” he said, the words almost a taunt.