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“Gent is the birthplace of the first Henry, Duke of Saony and later king of Wendar. It is well to honor the founder of our royal line. In Gent’s cathedral, Arnulf the Elder married the last of Varre’s royal heirs to his own children. On that day, Varre’s noble house and its right to rule Varre passed into Wendish hands. The holy biscop of Gent can anoint and crown me again in Gent, before the multitudes who live there and in the neighboring counties. Then the king’s progress will ride west through Saony and into Fesse, and from there into Arconia. Into Varre.”
“A wise choice,” said Mother Scholastica. “I approve.”
“And yet another reason,” he added. “Many there will attest to the miracle of St. Kristine, who appeared to a young Eagle on the day that the Eika horde led by Bloodheart attacked the city. That any of Gent’s townsfolk survived the sack of Gent is due to that miracle, and to that Eagle who led some of the population to safety along a secret path revealed to her by the saint. Let the deed be remembered. I know there are witnesses in Gent who will recall that day.”
Mother Scholastica frowned. “I’ve heard such a tale, but I don’t see—” But she did see. She almost laughed, her mouth twisted up in an expression that wasn’t a smile. “So be it. God wish justice to be done. Let it not be said that any trial was decided before all the evidence was weighed. Is there more, Sanglant?”
“That is all for now.”
“I am not your enemy, Sanglant.”
“In this matter?” He shrugged. “We are not enemies, Aunt. We both wish what is best for Wendar and our royal lineage. I am my father’s obedient son, and you are God’s obedient servant. So be it.”
“So be it,” she echoed. “Let Hugh of Austra be found. As for the rest, we will make ready. In three days’ time, Prince Sanglant will be crowned and anointed as king.”
4
“HE gave you the book to make you look guilty!” said Sanglant later that day, when they returned to the relative peace of their encampment beyond the town.
She sat on a bench with Da’s book on her legs. It was comforting to stroke the cover, the brass fittings, the cool leather binding that was, in this one corner, flaking from age. It needed to be oiled.
“This book condemns you by its existence. That’s why they want it burned.”
“I will never let them burn this book, or indeed, any book!”
“You’re being stubborn!”
She met his gaze calmly. “I am right.”
He sighed, pacing, rubbing his head. “Maybe you are. I don’t know.”
“But they’re right,” she added, “that another woman, one trained to court, would be a more suitable queen.”
He looked at her with disgust and left the tent. She heard his voice rise outside. “Fulk! Fulk! Is there any news of the fugitive yet?”
Moments of peace were not easily discovered on the king’s progress. For once, remarkably, there was not a single soul in the tent with her. Only a thread of light filtered through the smoke hole at the center of the scaffolding that held up the canvas, but because she had salamander eyes she had light enough to read the beloved words. She knew them all by heart, of course, but it gave her such intense pleasure to touch each letter, each word, and let the meaning flower before her eyes.
Astronomy concerns itself with the revolutions of the heavens, the rising and setting of the constellations, their movements and names, the motions of the stars and planets, Sun and Moon, and the laws governing these motions and all their variations.
“Are you reading? Your lips aren’t moving.”
Liath was so startled she almost overset the bench, and then was so embarrassed that she laughed nervously as she identified the tall woman who had slipped quietly into the tent and stood examining the furnishings with interest: a bed, a table, two chairs, two chests, two benches, and a half dozen carpets overlapping each other.
“It is true, then. The servants must all sleep outside. I heard that in Arethousa the emperor dines in solitude at the high table, not sharing his platter or his conversation with his companions. It must be an eastern custom.”
“Margrave Waltharia.” She rose. “Pray, be seated.”
“Thank you.” She sat on the bench next to Liath, very close, and Liath had to sit down right next to her or risk insulting her offer of intimacy. She was dressed in skirts cut for riding, and she smelled of horses. “So, it transpires that you are not the great granddaughter of Emperor Taillefer.”
“I was misled,” said Liath cautiously, “by the woman who claimed to be my mother.”
“You could have lied. No one would know differently, since according to all reports it is certain that the Holy Mother Anne—who claimed to be your mother—is now dead.”
“It isn’t the truth, so it would be wrong to say it was. Anyway, I never desired to be born to such a position.”
“Yet you carry yourself as if it is already understood.” The words were said without rancor. Waltharia was not angry or suspicious, only blunt. “You are a puzzle. And you do gleam a little, in this dim light.”
“Do I?” she asked, genuinely surprised. She looked at her hands but could see nothing unusual.
