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“Fifteen days south of here. I’ve almost lost track of the days.” She told a jumbled story of bandits and shadowy figures in the deep forest. “One of their arrows struck my horse’s flank, just a scratch, but even though the deacon at Laar blessed it, the poor creature sickened and died.”
“But you’re a King’s Eagle! Surely you could have commandeered another horse.”
“So I could have, had I been in Wendar. But no one here would give me a fresh mount in exchange for a sick one.”
“And this in my father’s lands?” He was appalled. “That isn’t how we serve the king’s messengers! I will see the deacons hereabouts are reminded of our duty.”
“Do you support King Henry, my lord?” she asked, clearly surprised.
He could only imagine the reception a Wendish rider—though she scarcely appeared Wendish, with that complexion—had received in this part of Varre. “I do what is right,” he said firmly, “and I hope my aunt—I hope my elders will never be disappointed in me by hearing I have stinted in hospitality to a stranger.”
She smiled, a brief flash on her face that he wished, at once, to see again. “You are kind, my lord.”
“Didn’t the blessed Daisan say, ‘If you love only those who love you, what reward can you expect?’”
That did make her smile again. “In truth, my lord, many of the folk who offered me shelter and food these last fifteen days had no horse to give in exchange. It was the ones who did who were least hospitable.”
“That will change,” he promised her. “What is your name, Eagle?”
Startled, she took a stutter step, stumbling to catch up as he paused to look at her. “I beg your pardon, my lord. It’s just not—few noble folk ask—”
Of course. Eagles hatched from common stock. No nobly born lord or lady would ever think of asking one’s name. He had betrayed his upbringing, and yet, why should he be ashamed of simple courtesy? “I am called Alain,” he said, to reassure her. “I meant nothing by it. It’s just hard to address you as ‘Eagle’ all the time.”
She ducked her head as she thought over this answer. She had a fine profile, limned now by the morning sun to the east. But for all her obvious physical vitality, she wore under that vigor a mantle of fragility, as if she might break apart at any moment. She is afraid. The revelation came to him with such force that he knew it to be true, yet he could hardly say so aloud. She lives in fear.
“I am called Liath,” she whispered, and sounded amazed to hear her own voice.
“Liath!” This name had meaning for him. He remembered it. “Liathano,” he said in a low voice as he took a step forward.
The weight of memory drowned him.
He stands in the old ruins, midsummer’s stars rising above him as bright as jewels thrown into the heavens. The Serpent’s red eye glares above. A shade detaches itself from the far wall, entering the avenue of stone. Fitted in a cuirass, armed with a lance, he carries a white cloak draped over one arm. Behind him, flames roar as the outpost burns under the assault of barbarians. He is looking for someone, but he sees Alain instead.
“Where has Liathano gone?” the shade asks.
Liathano. Surprised, Alain speaks. “I don’t know,” he says, but in answer he only hears the pound of horses galloping past, a haze of distant shouting, a faint horn caught on the wind.
His foot came down.
“What did you say?” asked the Eagle.
He shook himself, and Sorrow and Rage, trotting alongside, slewed their great heads round to look at him. Rage yipped once. Sorrow butted him on the thigh with his shoulder, and he staggered and laughed and rubbed Sorrow affectionately on the head with his knuckles.
“I don’t know,” he said, blinking into sunlight that seemed abruptly twice as bright. “Just that I’ve heard that name before.”
For an instant, he thought she would bolt and run. Instead she stopped dead, stared at him as he, too, halted, the hounds sitting obediently beyond. Bliss whimpered softly. His retinue eddied to a halt around him, keeping well away from both Eagle and hounds.
“No,” she said at last, more to herself than to him, her voice so soft only he and the hounds heard her. She seemed more perplexed than anything. “I can’t make myself feel afraid of you.”
Poor creature. Did she think she had to be afraid of everyone? “Come,” he said gently, showing her the way. “You must be hungry and tired. You will find a place to rest in my father’s hall. Nothing will hurt you there.”
And with that, she burst into tears.
Nothing will hurt you there.
The young lord made sure she had something to eat and wine to drink before he took her upstairs to his father. She was too bewildered, too confused, and too embarrassed by her sadden storm of weeping on the road beyond Lavas stronghold to know what to say to him, so she kept quiet.
With the count, she felt on surer ground.
