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“Did he bed her?”
“I believe she was faithful to your father. She admired and respected Henry.”
“I am glad to hear it. Although surely, if that is true, it makes her actions harder to understand.”
“They have two children, Your Majesty. What mother does not seek advancement for her beloved children? Presbyter Hugh achieved his high position because of his mother’s devoted affection.”
“True enough. Margrave Judith was no fool except in her love for him.”
One of the clerics limped out of the crowd and whispered into Vindicadus’ ear, then shoved him, pressuring him forward.
“My lord. I beg you. What news of the king? I know—we knew—you rebelled against him.”
“My father is dead.”
They cried out loud at that. He heard their whispers: Murderer. Patricide.
“Your Majesty,” said Fulk in loud voice. “Here comes Duchess Liutgard.”
Her mount picked its way down the slope. Her banner bearer rode to her left and her favored steward to her right. She gasped when she saw the refugees. Her face grew even whiter. Seven of them ran forward and flung themselves into the dirt before her, careful of the hooves of her horse, but she dismounted and tossed the reins to her steward before walking in amongst them and taking their hands, calling them by name.
“How has this happened? Why are you here?” she demanded.
They spoke all at once, words tumbling each over those of the others. “… blast of wind … rumblings, then a terrible quake … fire in the sky … glowing rock, flowing everywhere.
“Riots. A storming of the palace. Flight through the ruined streets.
“All is chaos, my lady,” wept the eldest, who was not more than forty. “I am called Elsebet, a cleric in Emperor Henry’s schola. We lost half of our number in the first day, and half again as many in our trek here. We dared not attempt the Julier Pass. This one, Brother Vindicadus, was once in the service of Presbyter Hugh and before him Margrave Judith. He knew of an eastern pass that was little traveled. You see what remains of the king’s schola. We lost so many. Is it true? Is it true the regnant—the emperor—is dead?”
“Henry is dead,” said Liutgard as she looked at Sanglant. “That we are any of us living now is due to my cousin, Sanglant. Henry named him as heir as he was dying. It was—” Her voice broke, but she went on. “It was the wish of his heart to see Prince Sanglant become regnant after him. Henry was not himself at the end, not for the last two or three years. He was ensorcelled by his queen and by Presbyter Hugh. It was Sanglant who freed him from their net. Hear me!” Her voice rang out above the murmurs. “It is true. I swear it on my mother’s and father’s graves. I swear it by the Hand of the Lord and Lady. Sanglant is regnant now over Wendar and Varre. He is the one we follow. He is leading us home.”
“We’ll set up camp here for the night,” said Sanglant quietly to Fulk. “We must make room for these.”
“We haven’t enough to feed them, Your Majesty.”
“We cannot abandon them. They are our countryfolk. If I cannot save them, then who will?”
Fulk nodded, and left to give the orders.
They settled down to camp in marching order as dusk crept over them. Every man and woman slept fully clothed and with weapons beside him, although many put off their mail. The horses were rubbed down, watered, and fed; it was their good luck to find an unpolluted stream close by. With Lewenhardt, Surly, and a limping Sibold in attendance, Sanglant walked down through the line of march, pausing to speak to many of the soldiers, and fetched up at last with the rear guard.
The centaurs, led by Capi’ra, had volunteered for this onerous task, and he supposed the sight of them alone might have deterred many a rash attack from behind.
“Anything?” he asked her after their greeting.
“The same as every day. We see signs of men following on our tracks, but they fade away. Fewer today. There are fewer folk living here, and if they would not attack us when they have greater numbers, then they will fear to attack us when they are only a handful.”
He nodded. It was almost dark. Night came early now, not just because of the time of year. Even during the day the clouds obscured the sun. His skin ached for light. Everyone felt its lack.
“It is strange to walk among you,” said Capi’ra after a silence. “Your kind are so reckless. I will be glad to return to my homeland.” She snorted, a horsey sort of chuckle. “No offense meant to you, Sanglant. We are not easy here. The land looks wrong. It smells funny. The winds aren’t the ones we know.”
“Look!” he said, squinting. “I thought I saw a flash.”
“Lightning?”
He beckoned. “Lewenhardt. Come forward. Do you see it?”
The archer rode forward and stared south into the dark sky. He began to shake his head, then stiffened. “Could it be?” he whispered, then shouted aloud. “The griffins! It is the griffins, Your Majesty!”
