Prince of Dogs (Crown of Stars 2)

paused despite knowing she ought to hurry right back to Matthias. With the aid of a stout walking stick, an old man shuffled forward and laboriously seated himself on a stool set down behind him by a girl. Many young children crowded ’round with gaunt faces upturned. She recognized him, just as she recognized the children: They, too, were refugees from Gent, the only ones who had escaped the Eika attack. No older children sat here; like Matthias, they had taken on the responsibilities of adults or been adopted by farmers to the west. They worked the tanneries and the armories, assisted the blacksmiths, chopped and hauled wood, built huts, broke virgin forestland to the plow, sowed and tended fields, and hauled water from the stream. It was children Anna’s age or younger who were set to watch over the very smallest ones, even those toddling babies whose nursing mothers had to spend all of their day working to make food and shelter.

The old man had been an honored guest at the mayor’s palace in Gent; he was a poet, so he said, accustomed to sing before nobles. Yet if this were true, why hadn’t the mayor of Gent taken him along when he had traded some part of the wealth he had salvaged from Gent to Mistress Gisela in exchange for her allowing him to set up housekeeping within the palisade wall of Steleshame? The old man had been left behind to fend for himself. Too crippled to work, he told tales in the hope of gaining a pittance of bread or the dregs from a cup of cider.

He cleared his throat to begin. His voice was far more robust than his elderly frame.

“‘This is a tale of war and a woman. Fated to be an exile not once but twice, first from her beloved Lassadaemon and then from her second home, red-gated Ilios, she suffered the wrath of cruel Mok, the majestic Queen of Heaven, and labored hard under the yoke of that great Queen’s fury. High Heaven willed that she walk the long path of adventure. But in the end she succeeded in founding her city, and thus in time out of these tribulations grew the high walls and noble empire of Dariya.’”

The poet hesitated, seeing his audience grow restless, then began again—this time without the stiff cadence that made the opening hard to follow. “Helen was heir to the throne of Lassadaemon. She had just come into her inheritance when usurpers arrived. Ai, ruthless Mernon and his brother Menlos marched with their terrible armies into the peaceful land and forced poor Helen to marry that foul chieftain, Menlos.”

“Were they like the Eika?” demanded a child.

“Oh, worse! Far worse! They came out of the tribe of Dorias, whose women consorted with the vile Bwrmen.” He coughed and surveyed the crowd, seeing that he had their attention. Anna liked the story much better told this way. “They made Helen a prisoner in her own palace while Mernon went off to conquer—well, never mind that. So Helen escaped and with her faithful servants fled to the sea, where they took ship. They set sail for Ilios, where her mother’s mother’s kin had settled many years before and built a fine, grand city with red gates and golden towers under the protection of bright Somorhas. But Mernon and Menlos prayed to cruel Mok, the pitiless Queen of Heaven, and since she was jealous of beautiful Somorhas, she cajoled her brother Sujandan, the God of the Sea, into sending storms to sink Helen’s ship. ‘How quickly night came, covering the sun! How the winds howled around them! How the waves rose and fell, first smothering the bow of the ship, then sinking so low that the very bottom of the sea was exposed!’”

Beyond the old man’s shoulder Anna could see the palisade and heavy gates of Steleshame proper. The gates were always shut, even during the day. Some in the camp grumbled that it was more to keep out the refugees than to guard against an Eika attack, for everyone in camp knew that within Steleshame they ate beans and bread every day, even the servants. Now, one of the gates to this haven of plenty opened, and five riders appeared. They rode out on the southeast track, along which part of the refugee’s settlement had sprawled.

The poet’s story—even as the storm-tossed ship ran aground on an island filled with monsters—could not compete with such an unusual event. Anna followed the others as they ran to line the road, hoping for news.

“Where are you going?” children shouted to the riders as they passed through the camp. “Are you leaving?”

“Nay,” shouted back a young woman outfitted in a boiled leather coat for armor, with a short spear braced against her stirrup and two long knives stuck in her belt. “We’re riding to the stronghold of Duchess Rotrudis, down to Osterburg where it’s said she holds court at Matthiasmass.”

“Will she come to rescue us?” demanded several children at once.

The other riders had gone on, but the young woman lingered, eyeing the crowd of children with a frown, shaking her head all the while. “I don’t know what she’ll do. But we must ask for help. More Eika scouts are sighted every day. More villages are burned. Their circle is growing wider. Soon they will engulf all of us. There are too many people here already. Mistress Gisela can’t support them all.”

Her comrades called to her and she urged her horse forward, leaving the camp behind.

Most of the children wandered back to the old poet and told him what the rider had said.

He snorted. “As if Mistress Gisela supports any but her own kin and servants, and those with coin to pay for food and protection. Alas that there is no biscop here to feed the poor.” Anna noticed all at once how thin he was. A film of white half-covered his left eye, and his hands had a constant small tremor.

“Who is Duchess Rotrudis?” she asked.

Trained as both listener and singer, he found her in the crowd and nodded toward her, acknowledging her question. “Rotrudis is duchess of Saony. She is the younger sister of King Henry. Alas that the Dragons fell. That was a terrible day.”

“Why hasn’t the king come to rescue us?” asked a boy.

“Nay, lad, you must recall that the world is a wide place and filled with danger. I have traveled over its many roads and paths. It takes months to get news from one place to another.” Seeing their expressions shift from hope to fear, he hurried on. “But I have no doubt King Henry knows of the fall of Gent and mourns it.”

“Then why doesn’t he come?”

He only shrugged. “The king may be anywhere. He may be marching on his way here now. How can we know?”

“Have you ever seen the king?” Anna asked.

He was surprised and perhaps taken aback by her question. “I have not,” he answered, voice shaking and cheeks flushed. “But I have sung before his son, the one who was captain of the Dragons.”

“Tell us more of the story,” said a child.

“Tell us something that happened to you, friend,” said Anna suddenly, knowing she ought to return to the tannery but not quite able to tear herself away.

“Something that happened to me,” he murmured.

“Yes! Yes!” cried the other children.

“You don’t want to hear more of the lay of Helen?”

“Did it happen to you?” asked Anna. “Were you on the ship?”