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They rode on for a time in silence as the afternoon sun drew shadows across the road. A red kite glided into view along the treetops and vanished as it swooped for prey. Vines trailed from overhanging branches to brush the track.
“Is she well?” Liath asked finally.
“She is as she ever was.”
“You might as well tell me nothing as tell me that. I hardly remember her. Ai, Lady! Can you imagine what this means to me?”
“It means,” said Wolfhere with a somber expression, “that I will lose you as an Eagle.”
It struck her suddenly and profoundly. “I’m no longer kinless. I have a home.” But she could make no picture in her mind of what that home might look like.
“You will become what your birthright grants you, Liath. Although how much Bernard taught you I don’t know, since you will not tell me.” Though there was a hint of accusation in his voice, he did not let it show on his face.
“The art of the mathematici, which is forbidden by the church.”
“But which is studied in certain places nevertheless. Will you go with me, Liath, when I leave the king?”
She could not answer. This, of all choices, was the one she had never expected to have.
By late afternoon they heard a rhythmic chopping and soon came to half-cleared land, undergrowth burned out between the stumps of trees. A goshawk skimmed the clearing. Squirrels bounded along branches, chittering at these intruders. Just past a shallow stream they came to a natural clearing now inhabited by three cottages built of logs and several turf outbuildings. A garden fenced with stout sticks ran riot alongside the central lane, which was also the road. Several young men labored to build a palisade, but when they saw the Eagles, they set down their tools to stare. One whistled to alert the rest, and soon Liath and Wolfhere were surrounded by the entire community: some ten hardy adult souls and about a dozen children.
“Nay, you can’t go this day,” said the eldest woman there, Old Uta, whom the others deferred to. “You’ll not come clear of the Bretwald before nightfall. Better you bide here with us than sleep where the beasts might make off with you. As it is, we’ve a wedding to celebrate tonight. It would be our shame not to show hospitality to guests at such a time!”
The young men put on deerskin tunics and then set up a long table and benches outdoors while the women and girls prepared a feast: baked eggs; rabbit; a haunch of venison roasted over the fire; a salad of greens; coarse brown bread baked into a pudding with milk and honey roasted mushrooms; and as many berries as Liath could eat without making herself sick, all washed down with fresh goat’s milk and a pungent cider that went immediately to her head. She found it hard to concentrate as Wolfhere regaled the foresters with tales of the Alfar Mountains and a great avalanche and of the holy city of Darre and the palace of Her Holiness the skopos, our mother among the saints, Clementia, the second of that name.
The bride was easy to recognize: the youngest daughter of Old Uta, she wore flowers in her braided hair and she sat on the bench of honor next to her husband. The bridegroom was scarcely more than a boy, and all through the meal he stared at Liath. There was something familiar about him, but she could not pin it down and no doubt it was only the strength of the cider acting on the astounding news Wolfhere had burdened her with that made her so dizzy.
Her mother was alive.
“Eagle,” said the young man, speaking up suddenly. “You were the one who led us out of Gent. Do you remember me? With no good humor, I’d wager. I’m the one as lost your horse, by the east gate.” Ruddy-cheeked from working in the sun, he looked little like the thin-faced lad who had wept outside Gent over losing her horse and losing his home that awful day; he had filled out through the chest and gotten rounder in the face. But his eyes had that same quick gleam.
“Ach, lad, lost a horse!” The men groaned and the women clucked in displeasure. “A horse! If we only had a horse to haul those logs, or even a donkey—”
“We could have traded a horse for another iron ax!”
“Peace!” said Liath sharply. They quieted at once and turned to her respectfully. “Did he not tell you what occurred at Gent?”
“Gent’s a long way from here,” said Old Uta, “and is nothing to do with us. Indeed, I’d never heard tell of it before they came.”
“What’s Gent?” piped up one of the younger children.
“It’s the place where Martin and Young Uta came from, child.” The old woman indicated the bridegroom and then a stout girl with scars on her face and hands. “We took them in, for there were many young people left without family after the raiders came. We’ve always use for more hands to work. It took us and the other foresters ten years to cut that road.” She nodded toward the track that led eastward out of the clearing into the dense forest. “Now we’re done, we can cut a home out of this clearing and be free of our service to Lady Helmingard.”
“Well, then,” said Liath, looking at each in turn, “I’ll thank you not to be thinking it’s any fault of Martin’s that he lost the horse. The king’s own Dragons died saving what townsfolk they could from the Eika. There was nothing a boy could do against savages.”
“Did all the Dragons die in the end?” Martin asked. She recalled now that he had been the kind of boy who yearned after the Dragons and followed them everywhere he could.
“Yes,” said Wolfhere.
“No,” said Liath, and she had the satisfaction of seeing Wolfhere astounded in his turn. “The prince survived.”
“The prince survived,” echoed Wolfhere, on an exhaled breath. Liath could not tell if he were ecstatic or dismayed.
“The prince,” breathed the young man in tones more appropriate for a prayer to God. “But of course the prince must have lived. Not even the Eika could kill him. Are they still there in Gent? The Eika, I mean.”
“Nay, for two great armies marched on Gent in order to avenge the attack last year.” Her audience raptly awaited the tale, and even Wolfhere regarded her with that cool gray gaze, patient enough for obviously wanting to hear the story of how Prince Sanglant had survived the death both she and Wolfhere had visioned through fire.
So she told the tale of Count Lavastine’s march and the terrible battle on the field before Gent, of Bloodheart’s enchantments and the Eika horde. She told of how Lavastine himself had taken some few of his soldiers as a last gamble through the tunnel and how Bloodheart’s death had shattered the Eika army, how King Henry’s army arrived at the very end—just in time. She could not resist dwelling perhaps more than was seemly on Sanglant’s great deeds that day, saving his sister’s line from collapse, slaying more Eika than any other soldier on the field. To these isolated forest folk the tale no doubt could as well have been told about heroes who had lived a hundred years before; she might as well have sung the tale of Waltharia and Sigisfrid and the cursed gold of the Hevelli for all that her words truly meant no more to them than a good evening’s tale.
