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But none of Lavastine’s soldiers paid any attention to her except to avoid bumping into her as she wove her way through their ranks or pressed past those of the Steleshame people who had come forward to offer berries or bread in exchange for news. At the tannery, she found Matthias sitting on his stool. She paused to watch him. His face was as pale as the bleached winter sky, but he worked vigorously. She waited until he had finished scraping the hair side of the skin pegged out before him, then spoke his name.
He turned, smiled, then frowned when she opened her shawl and offered him the food. “There’ll be bread tonight and a porridge. You should eat that yourself.”
“I’ve had plenty,” she said, and for once it was true. “You’re never given enough. You know it’s true, Matthias. Now don’t argue with me.”
He was tired enough and hungry enough that this time he didn’t argue, only ate. He had barely finished the scant meal when, looking over her shoulder, his eyes widened and he grabbed his stick and heaved himself to his feet.
“Matthias!” she exclaimed, but he made a sign with his hand and dipped his head. She spun.
Ai, Lady! She touched her Circle, traced her finger around it, and gaped. Lord Wichman might be the son of a duchess, but he was nowhere near as fine as this noble lord and his son, who even fresh off the march looked as grand as Anna supposed the king might. The noble lord was not as tall or robust as Lord Wichman, who walked beside him, but he had the same kind of brisk and effortless pride which she had noticed in the master currier back in Gent, when Matthias first apprenticed in the tanning works: Such a man—or woman—knew their domain, and that they commanded it absolutely. No doubt the master currier was dead now; she had never seen him among the refugees at Steleshame and supposed he had stayed behind during the final attack to defend his beloved demesne.
This lord had hair as colorless as the sand, a narrow face, pale blue eyes, and a keen gaze. He paused to speak to one of the workmen, indicating some leather which lay over a beam, and asked if the tannery had any leather cured and finished enough that his soldiers might use it to repair their armor. Lord Wichman fidgeted, having no patience for this sort of practical talk, and turned to speak to the lordling who stood at Count Lavastine’s side.
“Don’t stare!” whispered Matthias, nudging her with his free hand.
Master Helvidius had said that the count traveled with his son. Yet this young man was half a head taller than the count and had black hair rather than pale. He wore a padded coat worked with silver-and-gold thread in the outline of a hound, and, indeed, two huge black fierce-looking hounds walked meekly at his heels. He and his father were also attended by the Eagle. In the daylight Anna could see that her skin had not the tone of soot at all but rather that of a certain honey-colored soft leather prized by rich merchants for gloves.
A messenger from the king; a noble lord and his son; even Lord Wichman, who after so many months engaged in constant skirmishing looked ill-kempt beside his noble comrades. The assembly quite took Anna’s breath away, but not nearly as much as when the young lordling turned as if aware of her stare and looked right at her.
She cringed, knowing she ought not to stare. “Anna!” But Matthias’ muttered warning came too late.
The young lord crossed over to her, the hounds right behind him, and bent to touch a finger to her wooden Circle. “Poor child,” he said kindly. “I saw you at the roadside, I think, when we were marching in. Did you come from Gent?”
She could only nod.
“Are you one of the children who escaped through the tunnel?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Matthias gamely, having a voice. Anna had lost hers. The black hounds panted, tongues lolling, so near to her that she expected them to suddenly bolt past their lord and tear her to pieces. But they made no movement, nor did they growl or bark. They simply sat, watching their lord with eyes the color of melted honey.
The young lord lifted the Circle from her chest and regarded it quizzically. “I once wore a Circle fashioned such as this, but I have it no longer.”
“What became of it?” asked Lord Wichman who, more restless than the hounds, had come up beside the young lord. He glanced incuriously at Anna; he did not recognize her as the girl he had chastised on that winter raid months ago.
The young lord’s mouth quirked into a smile as fleeting as Wichman’s attention. “I gave it to an Eika prince.” He let go of the Circle and Anna, gaping, staggered slightly as if having lost the touch of his hand she was no longer anchored to the earth.
To an Eika prince.
It could not be. She wanted to ask but dared not. She ought to ask but was afraid to.
The young lord had already looked past her to Matthias. “Lady Above,” he said softly. “You have some injury, I think?”
Matthias bobbed his head respectfully, fighting to balance himself on his crutch. “I was taken as a slave for a time among the Eika, my lord.” His voice was amazingly steady. “Lord Wichman freed me on one of his raids, my lord,” he added, knowing it wise to flatter as many lords as were within earshot.
“You took the wound then, among the Eika?” asked the young lord. He had dark eyes and an expressive face, filled now with pity as he laid a hand on Matthias’ filthy and matted hair. “Poor child. I wish you may have the healing you deserve.”
“I’m a man now!” retorted Matthias suddenly.
Anna winced.
Lord Wichman snorted and gave a stiff, sharp laugh.
But the young lord only nodded. “So you are, come young to it through hardship. What is your name, friend?”
This was too much even for Matthias, who lost his boldness. “M-m-matthias, my lord.”
“And this is your sister?” The lord took his hand from Matthias’ head and smiled at Anna.
“My sister, Anna. It’s short for Johanna, my lord, the blessed Daisan’s discipla.”
