“It’s time to move,” says Stronghand, when all is silent. They stare northwest, but there is nothing to see. Night veils all things. “That is an omen, indeed, Lord Erling. You were right to bring news of it so quickly.”
“Yes, my lord,” the young man says, but he is barely breathing. He is still in shock, staring fixedly northwest as if turned to stone.
“We must make ready,” continues Stronghand. “Trueheart, you’ll remain here as my governor. Stores must be set aside for next winter. Seed corn hoarded, as much as possible. Plant fields. Hunt and trap, raid our enemies in the north and west and take their grain and seed corn for ourselves and our loyal servants. If they starve, so much the better. Lord Erling, you and the other lords I have raised will remain secure if your people have enough to eat. Be prepared for anything.”
“So have we seen!” Erling whispered, still staring after the vanished dragons.
“In six months I will return to make an accounting.”
“Where do you go, Stronghand?” Trueheart asks. “Will you fight again in Salia?”
He looks at Deacon Ursuline. She nods. “I must consult with the WiseMothers. I believe they have much they can tell me.”
“Should they choose to do so,” she says.
“Should they choose to do so. There is much I desire to know. This war is only beginning.”
another tear.
The tears were only beginning.
Dizzied, he shaded his eyes with a hand, but he had to concentrate, to fix on this moment, this Earth, this place—not the other one—because Henri was still talking.
“She was strong-willed but weak in her heart. Desperate, and beautiful. She used her beauty to feed herself, to get what she wanted. It was the only way she knew, Alain. Had she not been so desperately poor, she might have been otherwise. I do not know what she endured before she came to Lavas Holding. She would never speak of it. Pregnancy killed her. It’s the war women fight. Just as men die in battle, so some women are fated to die in childbed, wrestling with life. You survived it. She did not, though she wished to live. Fought to live. Sometimes beauty is like a candle flame—it shines because it burns. I would have married her, but she wanted something else.”
“What did she want?”
Henri shrugged with one shoulder, a movement so constrained that if Alain had not lowered his hand at that instant he would have missed it. “I don’t know. She wished to be something she was not.”
“As I did.”
“No, Son. No. Well, perhaps.” He laughed weakly. “That comes of her, I suppose.” He set down the file, scratched his beard, scratched his hair, and picked up the file again. “After all this, who do you think your father is? I mean, the one whose seed watered her garden.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I know who I am now because I know what I must do.”
Henri frowned. “You will leave us.”
“I must.” Sorrow barked, and he heard the hounds thrashing back through the undergrowth. He rose and stepped to see around the boat and up the trail. “Here comes Artald.”
Stancy’s husband waved to get their attention as he strode up. He was local born and local bred, a man without much imagination but levelheaded and generous, and a hard worker whose labor had helped Aunt Bel’s workshop prosper. He wasn’t puffing at all although he’d come in haste.
“Where’s Jul and Bruno?” he asked as his gaze skimmed the sound, seeking their sail. “Well, no use waiting for them.”
“What news?” asked Henri.
“A runner from t’village. They say Chatelaine Dhuoda has come with a small company.”
“Lord Geoffrey with her?”
“Nay, nothing like that. She’s looking for Alain, here. Best if he goes, don’t you think?”
“Best if I go,” agreed Alain, looking at Henri.
Henri frowned and absently patted the head of Sorrow as he nodded. “Just so, if she’s asking particular for him. Is she come to take young folk to Lavas Holding for their year of service?”
Artald shrugged. “Runner spoke nothing of that, Uncle. I’ll go with Alain.”
“Best we all go,” said Henri, “considering in what state we found him.”