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Then, in the hesitation as the final prayer died into the air and the congregation waited for the biscop to dismiss them, Liath stood and slipped along the wall to the shadowed corner of the vestibule where a heavy wooden door barred passage to the crypt. It creaked as she opened it. She glanced back, but the hum of the crowd, rising, stretching, waiting perhaps for a word from biscop or mayor about last night’s message, covered the noise. She left the door ajar behind her.
A thin line of light marked the door as she descended, and at the first sharp corner it glanced off stone and illuminated a bead of water caught on a delicate spiderweb. Turning the corner, she lost sight of the door, though the suggestion of daylight still trailed after her. She went as silently as she could, not wishing to disturb the peace of the dead. She reached the bottom, foot slamming into level floor where she thought there was another step down, and paused to let her jolted shoulders recover.
Strange, that the light from above still gave a steady if faint radiance, just enough that she could see the shape of her hand if she held it up in front of her face. Last night—but of course, last night it had already been dark when she and Wolfhere had descended; that was why it had been pitch-black. Abruptly, she heard a noise above, from the stairs. She froze, listening.
Footsteps descending. They were heavy and accompanied by a fine rattling and shaking, many small chains muffled in cloth. The pale ghosts of tombs watched from the gloom. She was, she discovered with surprise, not afraid at all. Indeed, without knowing why, she was expecting him.
“Liath,” he said. She could only see his shape, bulky in armor, only feel the air shifting as he stopped five steps above, his body blocking the narrow passage.
“You heard the door creak,” she said, “even above the noise of the congregation.”
“Below the noise of the congregation,” he corrected. She felt that he smiled or perhaps only wished that he did. In any case, he walked down the rest of the stairs. He stumbled on the floor, not expecting it so soon, and swore. “Damn, it’s dark down here. How can you see anything? What are you doing here?”
“Fetching something left behind.”
“An answer worthy of Wolfhere. I am not your enemy, Liath.”
“No,” she said. Her voice shook. “I never thought you were.”
Seeking, his hand found her shoulder; he was like a blind creature groping by sound. The crypt echoed strangely, and even the faint harmonics of his mail, rippling and clicking with his every least movement, got caught and distorted among the tombs and the vast breathless cavern, all air and stone.
“Who are you?” he asked. “Who are your kin?”
“I am the daughter of Anne and Bernard. I know nothing of my mother’s lineage, save that she is of free birth. Wolfhere knew her. It’s likely he knows things about her he has not chosen to tell me.”
He chuckled, a soft sound on an exhalation of breath. “Wolfhere is not a man for sharing confidences. Or so my father claims. But I did not expect you would be given the same treatment as the rest of us.”
His hand on her shoulder was terribly distracting, but neither did she want to move away from him. “Why? Why do you say that?”
“He favors you. Or I should say, he seems to be protecting you.”
“Perhaps he is. I don’t truly know.”
“Ah. And your father’s kin?”
“I know little about them, save that they came west and settled in Wendar during the reign of Taillefer. There is still a cousin who holds lands near Bodfeld, but I have never met her. One of her sons rides with the Dragons.”
He removed his hand from her shoulder, and she was sorry to lose the contact. He shifted, restless, and she glimpsed in the half-darkness the shape of his head, tilted back, then cocked to one side, as if he was listening. She could only hear the weight of the stone above her, a heaviness more sound than feeling.
“Bodfeld,” he murmured. “That would be Sturm. But he is trapped outside.”
“I met him!” She thought back, recalling the Dragon who had led the company which had saved them from the first attack of the Eika. But all she had seen of that man were blue eyes, blond beard, and a grim expression. Much the same expression, she supposed by the tone of his voice, which Sanglant wore on his face right now.
“He is a good soldier.”
This praise for her kinsman warmed her, though it was delivered bluntly and without any suggestion he meant it as flattery toward her.
“Why did you follow me?” she asked boldly.
Rather than answer, he sat on the last stair but one. It was an unexpected gesture and oddly moving; now, instead of towering above her, his head was level with her chest. He appeared less imposing. Perhaps that was his intent.
“A good lineage, if not of the first rank,” he said. “Which may account for your lack of deference.”
Stung and embarrassed, she flushed. “I beg your pardon, my lord. My Da always told me we came of a proud lineage and need bend our knee to none but the king.”
He laughed softly. Obviously he was not offended.
“You didn’t answer my question. Why did you follow me?”
