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“It seems you did not succeed. Anne is dead, the Ashioi are returned, and the Seven Sleepers are scattered or dead. You may be the last one of them who lives.” She did not mention Hugh.
“I no longer count myself among their number. I was nothing more than the cauda draconis.”
“The tail of the dragon, least among them.”
His smile was faint. But there was something about his smile that she had always trusted, even now, when she knew she ought not to. “As you say. I came to distrust Anne, alas, although I never ceased loving her, as I was taught to do. Some bonds cannot be broken, even when they are betrayed.”
She waited, forgiving him nothing and yet wondering what he would say next. An unseen chain bound her to him, since he was the one who had freed her from Hugh. That ought to count for something. But she also waited for the sound of hoofbeats behind her. If he and Blessing must meet again, she would be here to oversee it.
“When she brought that corrupt woman, Antonia of Mainni, into her councils, then I knew I could no longer serve her. That is why I left the Seven Sleepers behind and rode on my own path.”
“Then who do you serve, Wolfhere?”
“I am in the service of the king, as I have always been. My first loyalty was always to him, whom I loved best and most faithfully. All I did, in the end, was at his command.”
A twig snapped, and she jerked in the saddle. Her mount shied, but after all, it was only a deer in the forest bounding away.
He coaxed his spare mount forward, untied one of the saddlebags, and withdrew a bulky object wrapped in oilcloth to protect it from rain.
“This belongs to you.” He held it out, arm trembling at its weight.
Ai, God, it was heavy. She set it across her thighs, settled her reins over her horse’s neck, and unfolded the oilcloth. Underneath, a round, spiky shape was tightly bundled in purple silk of the highest quality, so tightly woven she could scarcely perceive the weave.
“What is this?” she asked, knowing the question pointless as she pulled the layers free. Her horse flicked its ears when she gasped. Wolfhere said nothing.
Even in the shady woods, under a cloudy sky, without sunlight to brighten it, the crown gleamed. It was thickset and nothing delicate, a reminder of the burdens of empire that must crush down on the neck of the one who rules. A crown is a form of binding; that she knew. The crown of stars held seven points, each one set with a gem: a shining pearl, rich lapis lazuli, pale sapphire, carnelian, ruby, emerald, and banded orange-brown sardonyx. She almost laughed, seeing the pattern unfold. Even Emperor Taillefer had sought the secrets of the mathematici. His crown mirrored both the stone crowns which in ancient days had forged the great weaving, but also the fabled earthly palace of coils whose winding path echoed the ladder that climbs through the spheres: the Moon, Erekes, Somorhas, the Sun, Jedu, Mok, and Aturna.
“Why do you give it to me?” she said at last. “I am not Taillefer’s heir.”
“Are you not?”
Her anger sparked. “You know this better than I, since you were there when my mother was called and caged. I am the child of flame. Not Anne’s daughter.”
“Not Anne’s daughter,” he agreed, “but who is your father’s mother?”
She flashed a smile, meant unkindly, because she was really getting irritated now. Blessing would come, and she desired no conflict, not now, not when she had to get to Kassel to find Sanglant but also had to ride at this agonizingly slow pace in order to protect those she was responsible for.
“I don’t trust you, Wolfhere,” she said, as if that was his answer. “But in any case, I know who my father’s mother is. I have met her. A very aged lady, a holy woman.”
“The hand of the Lady has guided you,” he said with surprise. “How comes it you have met her?”
“That is a tale I’m not sure I wish to tell you, until you tell me how you are come here this night. And how you came into possession of this crown. And what is happening at Kassel.”
He was in a mood to duel. There was a demon in him tonight that made him more oblique and maddening than ever. “What of her mother, then? Who was your father’s mother’s mother?”
“I don’t know. Neither does she. She was a foundling, given into the church.”
He nodded, as the praeceptor does when the discipla gives the long awaited, and correct, answer. “Therefore. The crown belongs to you. Your right, to determine who will hold it, who wield it, and who wear it. And if you do not believe me, ask the hounds of Lavas.”
Always he had the means to confound her!
A high voice rose in the air, and faded. Liath turned as the sound of approaching riders caught her ear. She had not keen enough hearing to sort out numbers and speed, not as Sanglant could, but she had recognized that voice’s timbre immediately. She swung back. Wolfhere’s hands had tightened on his reins, and his chin lifted and eyes narrowed as he squinted west along the road.
“If you threaten my daughter,” she said in a low voice, “I will kill you. I have come through too much. My patience is all burned away.”
He bowed his head without answering; his right hand slid into his left sleeve and he sighed and rested his arm there, as if releasing Taillefer’s crown had taken all his strength. She turned her horses all the way around and moved a few paces back the way she had come to get the best vantage of the unwinding path. Wrapping up the crown, she stowed it in one of the saddlebags she had taken from Hersford half-filled with supplies. She refused to mention her encounter with Hugh until Wolfhere confessed the whole, and he seemed just as unwilling to speak.
Silence is a locked chest.
