Maybe it was only a figure of speech, an old tale spun by the palace servants to pass the time.

But maybe it wasn’t.

“I’ve heard stories of men who can turn themselves into wolves,” she said at last, cautiously, “but never any of clerics who can turn themselves into rats. I’ve heard that story about the dragon, too, though, the one turned into stone. When there’s a great storm come in off the Northern Sea, you can hear the dragons keening. That’s what my old grandmother always said.”

“Lots of stories of dragons,” agreed the servant woman without looking up from her sweeping, “but I’ve never heard tell of a single person who’d ever seen such a beast. Rats, now. Rats I’ve seen aplenty.”

“There must be an army of rats in a great palace like this one.”

“And the biggest ones of all down in the dungeons. I don’t doubt they’re caught down there somehow, between stone walls. There’s only the one staircase, guarded by the Holy Mother’s faithful guards, and they’re sharp-eyed, those fellows. Everyone says so. As likely to skewer a rat on the point of their knife if it comes scurrying up the stairs. A woman here I know said it happens every year, and then they roast those rats they’ve caught and throw their burned carcasses to the dogs.”

She looked up then, her gaze like a sharp rap on the head.

“It would take a lot of rats to fill a dog’s belly,” answered Hanna, floundering.

“Not if they’ve grown as big as a dog themselves, or bigger even, human-sized or some say as big as a horse. A horse!” She bent back to her task with a curt chuckle. “I’m not believing such foolish tales. No rat can grow to be the size of a horse, and where would it hide, then? But I suppose they could become mighty big, nibbling on scraps and prisoners’ fingers and toes.”

That sharp look made Hanna cautious. Was there a veiled purpose to Aurea’s talking, or was she just nattering to pass the time?

“I remember stories that my grandmother told me.” Hanna moved along the attic until she came to the open trapdoor. She squinted down the length of the ladder but saw no lurking shadow, no listening accomplice. “I do love to trade old stories, about dragons and rats and wolves. I have a few stories of my own to tell.”

“So it might well be, you being an Eagle and all,” agreed the woman, sweeping past Hanna toward the window. Tidy piles of dirt and dust marked her path like droppings. “Eagles see all kinds of things the rest of us can’t, don’t you? Travel to strange and distant lands with urgent messages on behalf of the king. You’re welcome to join those of us servants from Wendar when we attend Vespers in St. Asella’s chapel, by the west gate of the city. There’s a cleric from Wendar called Brother Fortunatus who gives the sermon in Wendish there. Only on Hefensday, mind. That’s when we’re allowed to go.”

Since there were a dozen chapels within the regnant’s palace alone and a rumored five hundred or more within the walls of the lower city, Hanna could not guess which one the woman meant. Most of them she only recognized by the image of the saint that marked the portico. Yet she could not help herself. Clerics hidden like rats in the dungeon. Eyes that could see through walls, and traveling Eagles.

Perhaps she was making a conspiracy where none existed, but it wouldn’t hurt to follow this path a bit farther.

“I don’t know of St. Asella. If I go down to the west gate, is there some way to know which chapel is dedicated to her?”

The woman stilled her broom. Though her gaze was as innocent as a lamb’s, the soft words carried a barb. “St. Asella was walled up alive.”

2

IN the deepening twilight, tall trees seemed a grim backdrop to swollen grave mounds and a stone circle. As their little group neared the gap in the wall of trees that promised to be a trail, Ivar looked back over the clearing. He had never seen a stone circle in such perfect repair, each stone upright and all the lintels intact. It looked as if it had been built, or repaired, in recent months. Only the great stone at the center lay flat. His companions paused as dusk settled over them and a breeze sighed through the forest. The grave mounds seemed to exert a spell, luring them back. Ivar simply could not move, as though dead hands gripped his feet and held him tight. A twig snapped, breaking their silence.

“Do you think we’re really near Hersford Monastery?” asked Ermanrich, voice squeaking.

“As long as we’re well away from that Quman army, then I don’t care where we are.” Ivar knew he sounded braver than he felt as daylight faded. A wolf howled in the distance, answered by a second, and everyone grabbed for their weapons. “Where’s Baldwin?”