The momentary embarrassment, the realization that although their group had escaped the Quman as comrades they were, in fact, quite unequal in station, held them motionless until rain drove them into action. They slogged through what remained of the grassy clearing, sheltering their heads against the rain as best they could, keeping the torches dry. Luckily, the track ran straight and true through the trees. They took not more than one hundred steps on a downhill slope before they stumbled out onto a rocky outcropping. Cliffs rose above and below, staggered like the shoulders of a hulking beast. Rain washed over them with a fresh gust of wind, and they stumbled into such shelter as the overhang afforded. In the last of the fading light, Ivar saw a tiny hovel built of sticks standing off to one side, out in the rain, but truly, as Baldwin had reported, it hadn’t enough space even for one man to lie down in.

“Come, there’s plenty of sticks here to build a fire that’ll last the entire night, and they’re not too wet yet,” said Gerulf, then added: “If you will, my lords and lady.”

They gathered up fuel as quickly as they could and lit a fire just as it really got too dark to see. After some discussion, they settled on watches: Gerulf and Hathumod to begin, followed by Dedi and Ermanrich, and Ivar and Sigfrid last. Baldwin had already bundled himself up in his cloak and lain down to sleep in the deepest, driest crack of the overhang. They set out torches within easy reach, in case they needed them as weapons against marauding beasts, and settled down for the night.

Ivar lay down next to Baldwin. He dozed off at once and was startled awake much later by the sound of Hathumod’s voice, as soft as the brush of rabbit fur across his skin but rather more persistent.

“Nay, friend Gerulf, it isn’t a heresy at all, although the church may have said so.”

“I beg your pardon, Lady Hathumod, but why should the church mothers lie? Why would the holy women who have worn the robes and seal of the skopos each in her turn be party to such a deception?”

“Some simply were ignorant. They were taught as we were and knew no better. But truly, I do not know why the ancient mothers who wrote in the early days concealed the truth. They were the heretics, and the Enemy spoke through them. But now the truth is unveiled and shines brightly for all to see. I have witnessed miracles—”

Ivar had heard similar words from the lips of Lady Tallia, whose tortured body and zealous gaze had thrown all of them onto the path of heresy back in Quedlinhame. As he drifted back into sleep, he marveled that Hathumod, despite her undistinguished voice and unremarkable bearing, could sound so persuasive.

A foot nudged him, and when he shifted to turn his back to the summons, it nudged him again.

“Nay, nay,” he muttered, thinking himself back at Quedlinhame, “it can’t be time for Vigils already, is it?”

“So it might be,” whispered Ermanrich cheerfully, “although with the clouds overhead I can’t see the stars to tell what hour it is. It’s your turn for watch.”

Ivar groaned. He hurt everywhere. Even his fingers throbbed, but when he rose, crouching, and closed his hand over his spear, the grip felt funny. Memory jolted him awake. He’d lost two fingers in the battle. Maybe the Quman were already on their trail, ready to cut off his head. He straightened and promptly banged his head on the rock above.

“Hush,” hissed Ermanrich. “No need to go swearing like that. We’ve seen nothing on our watch and nothing was seen on the first watch either. I think Baldwin’s lions must have been scared off by his handsome face.”

“God Above.” Ivar stepped out past Ermanrich. A rush of cold night air swept his cheeks. He’d been breathing in smoke from the fire all night, and his lungs ached with soot. Outside, the rain had stopped, but he still couldn’t see any stars. “I’d forgotten how much I hated rising for prayers in the middle of the night.”

“Where’s your purity of faith? Don’t you remember the miracles?”

“They never took place at Vigils.”

Sigfrid stood next to the fire, rocking back and forth with eyes closed as he murmured prayers. Ivar fed a stick to the fire and rubbed his hands near the flames to warm them. Ermanrich and Dedi settled down on the ground to sleep.

Ivar didn’t like to interrupt Sigfrid at his prayers, so he stood quietly at watch. Neither did he want to pray. He had learned all those prayers in the church of his childhood and youth, the church of his mothers and grandmothers. But after witnessing the miracle of the phoenix and the miracle of Lady Tallia’s bloody wounds, he knew the church had lied to him. Perhaps Sigfrid and Hathumod could still pray, changing the words so they echoed the truth that had been hidden for so long. But prayer seemed to Ivar like an illusionary feast, pretty to look at and delectable to smell but tasting like ashes when you went to gobble it down.