“Halane.”
Alain started guiltily and looked round quickly to make sure no one was about, but they had all left, grateful to get out of the stockade. The hounds had settled back on their haunches, waiting patiently for Alain to free them.
“You must not speak,” he said, and was aghast to hear himself saying these words. “Only when we are alone. Otherwise they will hurt you.”
“No hurt,” said the Eika. “No hurt Halane. Go free.”
“I can’t free you. I must serve the count.”
“Name man.”
“Count Lavastine is the name of your captor. Surely you know that by now.”
“Tre man look. Un, do, tre man. Name man.”
What did he want? The name of the people who had come to look at him? Did he think they were all men, males, or did he have no word to differentiate male from female? Alain could not know. But he knew that just as he could not bring himself to betray the captive and helpless prince, neither could he betray the count’s trust. What if the prince did escape and then knew by face and name Lady Sabella? If the Eika recognized the word “king,” might they not also recognize “queen” or “prince?”
“I can’t tell you their names. You must understand that, I beg you.”
The prince did not reply. He blinked once, owllike, deliberate. Alain fled. It was too much to understand.
Later that evening, as he served at the table, the talk turned to the reign of the Emperor Taillefer, he who one hundred years ago had united Salia, Varre, the westernmost duchies of Wendar, and most of the southern princedoms into a great confederation blessed and anointed by the skopos in Darre as the rebirth of the Dariyan Empire. Only then did Alain realize that the Eika prince had counted one, two, three in a bastardized form of the language spoken in Salia. He knew a bit of it, enough to communicate with those Salian merchants who beached their boats at Osna village. But how had an Eika prince come to learn it? Truly, there was more to him than met the eye.
In the morning, Biscop Antonia led a somber service to celebrate the second day of the Ekstasis. As the congregation left, Alain sidled away to kneel in the chapel. Lackling followed him, and although with signs and whispers Alain tried to make him go away, the halfwit remained stubbornly blind to the hints. Or perhaps he truly did not understand. But the boy knelt quietly, breath sucked in noisily and blown out with a slight whistling through the gaps in his teeth. Lackling had never once broken the silence of church with his grunts, his half-formed exclamations, his snorting chuckles. Alain laid a hand on Lackling’s shoulder and in this companionable way they considered the altar, dedicated to St. Lavrentius, who had died before the time of the Emperor Taillefer while bringing the Circle of Unity to the Varrish tribes that lived in this region.
They knelt there so quietly that the mice who nested beneath the altar grew bold enough to venture forth from their safe haven. Lackling held his breath; he loved the tiny creatures. Alain slowly slid a hand along the floor and one of the little brown creatures, dark eyes bright, nose twitching, anxiously darted over to investigate his fingers. Gently he lifted it up and let Lackling stroke its downy coat. Alain did not have the heart to kill them, although they were pests, not when they came so trustingly to his hands.
Suddenly the mouse scrabbled frantically up Lackling’s fingers and leaped out of the halfwit’s hands. It vanished under the altar and all rustling and scratching ceased.
“My friend.”
Even having braced himself, Alain still started when Agius spoke softly behind him. A moment later Agius knelt beside him, although the frater did not allow himself the luxury of kneeling on the pillow laid there for that purpose.
“Is there anything you wish to tell me, Alain?”
Alain gulped down a sudden lump in his throat.
“I swear to you that I will consider this as a private confessional, between you and God.”
“A p-private confessional?”
“There are some of us in the church who believe that confession ought to be a private matter between the penitent and Our Mother, in which such as I serve only as an intercessor. I do not believe in public confession, Alain, though some might call me radical for professing such a belief. Each one of us must bend our heart to Our Lady and the Divine Logos, the Holy Word, for it is the inner heart and not the outer seeming which matters to God.”
“But, Frater Agius, does not the outer seeming reveal the inner heart?”
“We can never know the inner heart except through Our Mother’s grace. It might appear to you that I serve Our Lady faithfully, with a true and single-minded heart, and yet how can you see past this outer seeming to know that my inner heart is riddled with vainglory and pride, in believing that I can serve Our Mother better than any other man? So do I pray each day for the lesson of humility. I beg you, my friend, for the sake of your immortal spirit, tell me the truth of what you know.”
“I—I know nothing. The Eika prince spoke a few words to me. That is all.” Even clasped before him, his hands shook as he spoke.
“Words in what language?”
“Wendish. I know no other language.”
“Many of the people here in Varre also know Salian.”
“I know a few words. The prince counted in Salian, or at least, the words sounded something like Salian but not exactly like. But he said almost nothing. He cannot truly speak our language.”
“Why did you not tell Count Lavastine?”