King's Dragon (Crown of Stars 1)

Wolfhere lifted an eyebrow, waiting for her to speak.

She brushed a piece of straw off her leggings and shifted her seat. She was by now thoroughly sick of straw; it poked through everything and tickled her nose all night. Behind her, her saddle provided reasonable support. But she felt the presence of the book, hidden beneath the saddle and within the leather saddlebags. Could Wolfhere feel the book’s presence as well? Was he only biding his time?

“What do you mean to do?” she asked.

“I mean to seek a vision of this intelligence Prince Sanglant speaks of, whatever creature it is that directs the Eika siege.” He rose. Because she no longer had a choice, she rose with him and followed him out of doors.

It was dusk in Gent. Clouds had come in after that glorious morning sunlight and now it was again a dreary, overcast, damp spring evening. St. Melania’s Day, Liath thought, named for the saint who had admonished the patriarchs of Kellai when they refused to accept the supremacy of the Lady and Lord of Unities. It was also the seventeenth day of the month of Sormas. Because cloud covered the sky, she could not orient herself by the stars. And dared not. It was bad enough Wolfhere knew her father and mother had studied the forbidden arts. She had only made it worse by speaking so rashly in Mayor Werner’s hall.

This night the streets were mostly empty. Perhaps the morning’s excitement had exhausted everyone. Their footsteps were swallowed in the greater hush of a city turning over from day to night, from activity to restless sleep, haunted always by the presence of the Eika outside the walls. A thin sheen of moisture from the afternoon’s shower covered the plank walkways that kept them above the muck of the streets. The drums that always pounded in the Eika camp were, thank the Lady, muted this night, though still audible. Even so, she found her footsteps falling into beat with them; she skip-hopped, trying to walk off the rhythm.

Wolfhere smiled and they turned past the old marketplace and skirted the edge of the royal mint, which was heavily guarded. The wind shifted, bringing the stink of the tanning works up from the western bank of the river. There, work went on into the night at adjacent warehouses where armor and weapons were being turned out from iron and wood and leather that had been carted in from the countryside by the refugees.

He led her across the central square of Gent and up the steps of the cathedral. Built all of stone, its massive front stood like the shield of faith in Gent’s center. They slipped inside easily, since the doors had no locks.

And in any case, some of the refugees from the countryside had taken up residence in the nave. Liath hesitated in the entryway, hearing the shuffle of bodies within, coughs and whispers. No light was allowed after sunset, even in a stone building, for fear of fire, but she could see blocks of shadows, awnings and blankets thrown up as walls between the benches to separate one family from the next. Everyone had settled down to sleep. Wolfhere touched her on the arm and she followed him silently to the stairs that led down to the crypt.

Liath had never been, afraid of the dead or the darkness. As Da always said: “Those who rest in the Chamber of Light are at peace; the others have no power to harm us.” Even so, it soon became so dark as they descended stairs made first of stone and then, as they descended still deeper, of bare earth, that even she with her salamander eyes could not make out the walls but had to feel her way by touch.

o;Mayor Werner has need of my services as a messenger.”

“Mayor Werner thinks too much of his own consequence and is perfectly willing to enhance it by having a King’s Eagle to carry his messages for him on trivial errands. You would be more useful running errands for the Dragons … and their captain.”

She flushed.

“He is a king’s son, Liath. What is commonplace for him would be disastrous for you.” She flushed more deeply, mortified. “Remember the precepts I have taught you, and understand that you must hold to them once you are fully an Eagle.” She tried to nod but could only manage a slight jerk of the head. Mercifully, he changed the subject. “In any case, this evening I have excused myself from the feast, which apparently will be much reduced now that the biscop has stepped in to set up rations for the city. Manfred will attend Mayor Werner. You will attend me. It is time for you to witness the workings of the magi, even one as weak in the craft as I am.”

“Da said I was deaf to it,” she blurted out. Anything to delay.

“Deaf to what?”

“To magic.” There, it was spoken out loud.

“So he did teach you magic. You must trust me, Liath. You cannot conceal the truth from me. I know your background too well.”

Better, it appeared, than she herself knew it. She shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, but Wolfhere’s gaze was too keen. She could not fool him. And yet …

Wolfhere lifted an eyebrow, waiting for her to speak.

She brushed a piece of straw off her leggings and shifted her seat. She was by now thoroughly sick of straw; it poked through everything and tickled her nose all night. Behind her, her saddle provided reasonable support. But she felt the presence of the book, hidden beneath the saddle and within the leather saddlebags. Could Wolfhere feel the book’s presence as well? Was he only biding his time?

“What do you mean to do?” she asked.

“I mean to seek a vision of this intelligence Prince Sanglant speaks of, whatever creature it is that directs the Eika siege.” He rose. Because she no longer had a choice, she rose with him and followed him out of doors.

It was dusk in Gent. Clouds had come in after that glorious morning sunlight and now it was again a dreary, overcast, damp spring evening. St. Melania’s Day, Liath thought, named for the saint who had admonished the patriarchs of Kellai when they refused to accept the supremacy of the Lady and Lord of Unities. It was also the seventeenth day of the month of Sormas. Because cloud covered the sky, she could not orient herself by the stars. And dared not. It was bad enough Wolfhere knew her father and mother had studied the forbidden arts. She had only made it worse by speaking so rashly in Mayor Werner’s hall.

This night the streets were mostly empty. Perhaps the morning’s excitement had exhausted everyone. Their footsteps were swallowed in the greater hush of a city turning over from day to night, from activity to restless sleep, haunted always by the presence of the Eika outside the walls. A thin sheen of moisture from the afternoon’s shower covered the plank walkways that kept them above the muck of the streets. The drums that always pounded in the Eika camp were, thank the Lady, muted this night, though still audible. Even so, she found her footsteps falling into beat with them; she skip-hopped, trying to walk off the rhythm.

Wolfhere smiled and they turned past the old marketplace and skirted the edge of the royal mint, which was heavily guarded. The wind shifted, bringing the stink of the tanning works up from the western bank of the river. There, work went on into the night at adjacent warehouses where armor and weapons were being turned out from iron and wood and leather that had been carted in from the countryside by the refugees.

He led her across the central square of Gent and up the steps of the cathedral. Built all of stone, its massive front stood like the shield of faith in Gent’s center. They slipped inside easily, since the doors had no locks.

And in any case, some of the refugees from the countryside had taken up residence in the nave. Liath hesitated in the entryway, hearing the shuffle of bodies within, coughs and whispers. No light was allowed after sunset, even in a stone building, for fear of fire, but she could see blocks of shadows, awnings and blankets thrown up as walls between the benches to separate one family from the next. Everyone had settled down to sleep. Wolfhere touched her on the arm and she followed him silently to the stairs that led down to the crypt.

Liath had never been, afraid of the dead or the darkness. As Da always said: “Those who rest in the Chamber of Light are at peace; the others have no power to harm us.” Even so, it soon became so dark as they descended stairs made first of stone and then, as they descended still deeper, of bare earth, that even she with her salamander eyes could not make out the walls but had to feel her way by touch.

Wolfhere, ahead of her, stopped, and she steadied herself, one hand on his shoulder. It was utterly black. The crypt smelled of clay and lime. It was damp. At the edge of her hearing came the sound of the slow drip of water.