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For an instant he gleamed there, crowned in splendor.
The sparks vanished, leaving them with a steady gleam of magelight and a cool, pale woman of vast power and middling height. Whispering, half frightened and half in awe, the servants hurried to light lamps as the magelight spun itself into delicate threads and, at last, into nothing, simply fading until it disappeared.
“Illusion,” muttered Villam.
Hugh of Austra’s gaze glittered just as brightly as had those dancing sparks. In his expression gleamed an unsettling hunger.
Queen Adelheid looked no different than he did, dazzled, thirsty for more.
Even Henry. God save them, even Henry.
“What do you want?” Henry asked again, his voice as hoarse as that of a famished man who has just seen a feast laid out on the table.
Villam’s hand brushed Rosvita’s fingers, a signal she could not read. Nor could she speak to ask him, not even whisper, not with the silence lying so deeply around them, a cloak thrown over the assembly.
Can we trust her?
Rosvita no longer doubted Anne’s right to wear the gold torque. Granddaughter of Taillefer and Radegundis, daughter of Fidelis and the foundling girl Lavrentia; a mathematicus of considerable power. One could not ignore such a woman.
Anne bent to pick up a shard of glass, as blue as lapis lazuli, off the parquet floor. She displayed it in her palm, blew on it gently, and a brilliantly blue butterfly opened its wings and flew away, quickly lost in darkness. She did not smile as she addressed the king. A woman with so much power does not need to smile, or to frown.
“Do not turn away from me, Henry, Lord of Wendar and Varre,” she said, untroubled by the agitated currents roiling around her. “For without my aid, you will have no empire to rule.”
7
EVERY soul tainted by the touch of mortal earth is peppered with shadows and black recesses, caught where they are least expected: hates, loves, fears, passions, envies and angers, lies and truths. Every soul born on Earth can never be free of them. No matter how fiercely the cleansing fire rages, she will never be pure fire.
She will always be trapped in her body.
She hit the ground running, half crouched, bow ready. Here in the sphere of Jedu, a light snow fell. She loped over a plain marked by hundreds of small outcrops, tumbled boulders, heaps of stone, irregular folds, every lump and swell concealed under a blanket of snow. Cold flakes dissolved on her lips, swirling around her naked body. The only place she was warm was along her spine where her quiver gave her skin some protection from wind and falling snow. Her toes had already gone numb from the cold; each step was agony, like walking on needles. It was a bad place not to have any clothes.
It was a bad place to be trapped in a physical body. Looking back, she saw no gate, no entry point, only her footprints, steaming as the brief warmth of her passing was whirled away into the bitter air. She could only go forward. That was always the case, wasn’t it? She could never go back.
She brushed snow from her hair, felt it tickle her eyelashes and dust the end of her nose. Flakes melted on her nipples and strung a mantle across her shoulders, rubbed clean at intervals by the leather strap of her quiver. Her ears stung. Despite the stiffness in her fingers, she kept her bow raised and an arrow taut. In Jedu’s angry lair, anything might happen. She had to expect the worst.
It didn’t take long for the worst to find her.
Thunder rolled and tumbled in the distance. Lightning flashed, sparks of brilliance on the horizon. She paused, seeing no storm clouds, only the steady gray bowl of a fathomless sky.
Not a storm at all. At first the figure looked impossibly small. In the time it took Liath to take in two sharp breaths, the creature doubled in size as the thunder of its footsteps rang in the air. As she caught in a gasp, it filled her sight, a monstrous giant.
The Angel of War.
In place of eyes she wore shining mirrors. Her mouth was huge and fierce, as red as poppies. Her black hair was as tangled as a bramble bush, and from it peeped two hideous horns, each one tipped with a stain of blood. For armor she wore masks, a hundred or a thousand or more covering her massive body. On each shoulder she wore a mask with mirror eyes. On each elbow there hung another such face, a mask with mirror eyes, and on her knees there hung masks as well, faces glittering and shining with every least movement she made; even her abdomen and back bore faces, each one frozen in a leer or a grimace. With mirrors hanging upon every part of her body, it looked as if she could see in all directions.
She bore a spear and a sword, but not a shield. The masks—the mirroring eyes—were her shield.
Where the Angel of War walked, the ground came alive. Snow shuddered. What Liath had thought were rocks and boulders uncurled into living beings. She walked not on an empty plain but on a battlefield that stretched impossibly far in every direction, a plain of corpses, the detritus of war.
They didn’t look very dead now. They were rising out of the snow, and they were all armed.
The easiest choice was to run.
But she had only taken two halting steps backward before she knew that running was no choice. The dead were everywhere, too many to count.
Thunder crashed. Jedu loomed, filling the sky. The angel’s face bore that grimace of uncontrolled rage that turns a beautiful face hideous. Thousands of huge mirrored eyes stared at Liath, yet their gaze did not perceive her. In each glittering, faceted eye she saw, not herself but a death on the field of battle, the killing thrust, the mortal wound, the last breath and bubble of blood. There were more than enough suffering dead to fill the vast plain.
Out of the field of moldering bones and broken weapons, misty figures appeared, insubstantial at first but solidifying like wax sculpted into forms. To her left a phalanx of a hundred warriors moved into position, each man armed with a lancelike spear twice as long as any she had ever seen. She recognized these warriors from tapestries and frescoes, with their hammered breastplates and crested helmets: the soldiers who carried the banner of the old Dariyan Empire. Other groups of fighters cohered on the plain around her. Some of these cohorts she recognized, Aoi, Quman, or Eika. Others she knew only from stories or dreams, centaurs, men mounted on camels or huge elephants, a wild hunter leading his mastiffs, guivres and griffins rising in flight. Sounds issued forth, orders in a thousand languages, the cries of the beasts, the clamor of armies in motion.
