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At last, Wolfhere shook himself as a wolf might, emerging from water. “I don’t know. I want to find Liath, my lord prince.”
“As do I. But what do you mean to do with her, should you find her? Take her back to Anne? Is that what Anne commanded you to do?”
“Nay. I was meant to follow Anne and the others from Verna, but I could not bring myself to, not after what I had seen there. So much destruction! The monks at the hostel had seen a man fitting your description walking north. It was easy enough to follow you and your mother, although not so easy to avoid the notice of the king’s soldiers as King Henry and his army marched south.”
“Where did Anne go?”
Wolfhere hesitated.
The prince took a half step forward. An arm’s length was all that separated the two men now: the old Eagle, and the young prince who had once been a Dragon. “Tell me the truth, Wolfhere, and I’ll let you travel with me if that’s your wish. I’ll let you help me look for Liath, for you must know that there is nothing I want more than to find her.”
Wolfhere examined him. The firelight played over his expression, brushing light and dark across his features as if one never quite overpowered the other. “How do you mean to look for Liath, my lord prince, when it took eight years for Anne and me to find her before? With what magic do you intend to seek out a woman stolen away by unearthly creatures who fly on wings of flame?”
“If she loves me and the child,” said Sanglant grimly, “she’ll find a way back to us. Won’t she? Isn’t that the test of love and loyalty?”
“Perhaps. But what do you intend to do meanwhile? You didn’t ride south with your father’s army. Had you done so, you would discover soon enough that Anne and the others traveled south to Darre.”
“Ah! Is that why Anne sent you? To spy on me? Very well. I’ll take up her challenge, because I mean to defeat her now that I understand what she is and what she means to do to my mother’s kin.” As usual, now that Sanglant knew what his objective was, a plan unfolded before him. “I’ll need griffin feathers and sorcerers to combat her magic. And an army.”
“All of which will be useless, my lord prince.” Wolfhere was far too old and wily to be won over by the excitement of such a bold plan; no doubt he expected a full-grown eagle, not just a fledgling. “You do not understand her power. She is Taillefer’s granddaughter, and a mathematicus of unequaled strength and mastery.”
“I respect her power. But you forget that I am married to her daughter, and that her granddaughter bides in my care. Blessing is half of my making. I am not without rank and power in my own right.”
“You no longer wear the gold torque that marks your royal lineage.”
“Liath wears the torque that once was mine, as is her right. My daughter wears one.”
“But will you wear one again? Or have you turned your back on what Henry gave you, as was his right as your father?”
The cool words irritated him. “I will take what I need and deserve when I am ready, not before! My father does not own me.” But irritation could be turned into something useful, just as anger makes splitting wood go faster. “Help me restore Taillefer’s line to its rightful place, Wolfhere, in preparation for the return of the Aoi, so that we can face them from a position of strength. Help me find Liath. Help me defeat Anne. In truth, your experience would prove valuable to me.”
“You would risk your precious daughter so near to me, my lord prince?” Yet was there a glimmer of vulnerability in the old Eagle’s expression as he leaned forward to stir the fire with a stick? Sparks drifted lazily up into the night, flicking out abruptly where they brushed against the stone.
“I can’t trust you, it’s true. This might all be a ruse on your part. But my daughter is well guarded by a creature that never sleeps, and who will soon know what manner of threat you pose. And it seems to me, my friend, that when we first met this night you had snuck into my camp without being seen. You were close enough to my daughter to kill her, had that been your intent. A knife in the dark offers a quick death. Yet she lives, despite my carelessness.”
Was that a tear on Wolfhere’s cheek? Hard to tell, and the heat of the fire wicked away all moisture.
Sanglant smiled softly and glanced at Heribert, who only shrugged to show that, in this case, he had no advice to offer. “Travel with me and my company of thistles, Wolfhere. What better option do you have? You don’t trust Anne. King Henry has pronounced you under ban. At least I can protect you from the king’s wrath.”
Wolfhere smiled mockingly. “It isn’t the king’s wrath I fear,” he said, but he raised no further objection.
VII
A DEATH SENTENCE
1
STRONGHAND had seen in his dreams that it was the habit of humankind to make their festivals an interlude of excess and self-gratification. They let fermented drink addle their minds. They ate too much. Often they became noisy, contentious, and undisciplined, and they spent their resources extravagantly and as though their cup of plenty ran bottomless.
Even the chieftains of his own kind had grown into the habit of celebration after each victory. They might command their warriors to parade treasure before them, or they might lay bets on fights staged between slaves and beasts. By such means, and in the company of their rivals, they boasted of their power.
He had no need of such displays. The ships of his dead rivals lay beached on his shores and now swelled the numbers of his fleet. Weapons he hoarded in plenty, and the ironsmiths of twenty or more tribes hammered and forged at his order. The chieftains of twenty tribes had come to Rikin Fjord at his command to lay their staffs of authority at his feet. They had accepted him—some willingly—as ruler over all the tribes: first among equals, as the humans styled the regnant who reigned over those who called themselves princes and lords. He had named himself Stronghand, by the right of naming given by the OldMother of his tribe. He was, after all, the first chieftain to unite all the tribes of the RockChildren under one hand.
But he felt no thrill of triumph, no ecstasy of power. He had no wish to celebrate. He nursed in his heart and mind only the chill knife of ambition and the cold emptiness that marked the absence of the one whom he had known as a brother in his heart: Alain, son of Henri, now vanished utterly from mortal lands.
Stronghand no longer dreamed. This lack was a nagging source of bitterness and sorrow.
But dreams were not all of his life. He did not need his dreams. He had thought through his desires with all due calculation. Not even the loss of his heart would divert him from his purpose. After all, ambition and will serve best the one who is heartless.
