The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars 3)

She didn’t know what to reply. She, too, had nothing—except the book, the horse, and her weapons. Yet in truth few people possessed so much. Still, would it have been wiser to go to her mother, who presumably had the means to feed and house and teach her?

Perhaps.

But as she watched Sanglant distribute this largesse—and jewels certainly impressed the villagers—she could not imagine any decision other than the one she had made last night.

They rode out of Ferse with the wind at their backs only to find that the ferryman wouldn’t take them across the water. So they huddled under the trees while the storm moved through, brief but strong. Rain lashed the ground, pounding dirt into mud. Wind whipped the river into a surface of choppy waves. She used her blanket like a cloak to cover herself while Sanglant walked out in the full force of the rainstorm, heedless of the rain pouring over him. It drenched him until his hair lay slick along his head and his clothes stuck to him in a most inviting fashion. The fresh scar left by his slave collar stood out starkly against his dark skin.

“You left behind Bloodheart’s collar,” she said suddenly.

He mopped rain from his forehead and flicked a slick mat of hair out of his eyes. “The villagers will make use of it.” Then he grinned, the familiar charming smile she had first seen at Gent. At once he began bantering with the soldiers who, like Liath, huddled under the tree in the vain hope of staying dry. He soon had them laughing—eating out of his hand, as Da had once said years ago when they had watched an Andallan captain-at-arms ready his men to march into battle—and the delay passed remarkably swiftly.

With all the horses, it took six trips to get them over on the ferry, and even then seven of the horses balked at getting on board the rocking ferry and had to be let swim across. Sanglant and two of the soldiers stripped to go in with the horses, and Liath had to look away with her face burning while she listened to their companions, now unable to restrain themselves, making jests about wedding nights and “riding” and other coarse jokes.

“I pray you,” said Sanglant sternly when he rejoined them, “do not make light of the marriage bed, or my bride, who will have a difficult enough time at the king’s court as it is.” They looked a little shamefaced, but he soon pried them out of it by asking each man about his home and family and what battles he had fought in.

Mud and a second squall made for slow going, and Sanglant seemed in no hurry to return. Nor was she. The farther they rode the more nervous she got. But nevertheless they came within sight of Werlida by midafternoon. Even from the road beneath the ramparts it seemed a veritable hive of activity—more so than when she had left.

At the gates, guards greeted them. “Prince Sanglant, you have returned!” They looked relieved.

“What’s all this?” Sanglant gestured toward the lower enclosure, which was bustling with movement. Just ahead a herd of squealing pigs had been confined in a fenced enclosure from which they were now being removed one by one to be slaughtered.

“They rode in not one hour before you, my lord prince!” exclaimed the guards.

“Who did?”

A horn blasted from the road behind, and two dozen riders wearing the sigil of a hawk galloped up behind them, looking irritated to be kept waiting—until they recognized the prince.

Sanglant began to laugh. “Lady Fortune is with us this day. My father will be far too busy to remember me!”

The hawk: symbol of the duchy of Wayland.

Duke Conrad had arrived at last.

4

DUKE Conrad had arrived at last.

King Henry was in a foul mood, furious about Sanglant’s disappearance. Rosvita feared it would bode ill for Conrad when Henry, upon being told the news that the duke of Wayland would arrive soon after Nones, smiled grimly. He went at once to pray and refused to break his fast at midday, since it was his habit to honor God in this way before wearing the crown.

aughter came sharp and bright on the morning air. “I have learned to be patient.” He sobered, seeing the soldiers waiting, horses saddled, everyone ready to go, and the villagers waiting expectantly. Thunder rumbled again as rain spattered down on the dirt.

“What do I do, Liath?” he muttered. “I’ve nothing to gift them with for their night’s hospitality. I can’t just leave without giving them something. It would be a disgrace to my reputation—and my father’s. Ai, God!” He winced, hid the expression, then abruptly unsheathed his knife and pried the jewels off the fine leather case in which he carried the book, muttering under his breath as he did so. “Wolfhere was right. I’ve nothing of my own. Everything comes at my father’s sufferance.”

She didn’t know what to reply. She, too, had nothing—except the book, the horse, and her weapons. Yet in truth few people possessed so much. Still, would it have been wiser to go to her mother, who presumably had the means to feed and house and teach her?

Perhaps.

But as she watched Sanglant distribute this largesse—and jewels certainly impressed the villagers—she could not imagine any decision other than the one she had made last night.

They rode out of Ferse with the wind at their backs only to find that the ferryman wouldn’t take them across the water. So they huddled under the trees while the storm moved through, brief but strong. Rain lashed the ground, pounding dirt into mud. Wind whipped the river into a surface of choppy waves. She used her blanket like a cloak to cover herself while Sanglant walked out in the full force of the rainstorm, heedless of the rain pouring over him. It drenched him until his hair lay slick along his head and his clothes stuck to him in a most inviting fashion. The fresh scar left by his slave collar stood out starkly against his dark skin.

“You left behind Bloodheart’s collar,” she said suddenly.

He mopped rain from his forehead and flicked a slick mat of hair out of his eyes. “The villagers will make use of it.” Then he grinned, the familiar charming smile she had first seen at Gent. At once he began bantering with the soldiers who, like Liath, huddled under the tree in the vain hope of staying dry. He soon had them laughing—eating out of his hand, as Da had once said years ago when they had watched an Andallan captain-at-arms ready his men to march into battle—and the delay passed remarkably swiftly.

With all the horses, it took six trips to get them over on the ferry, and even then seven of the horses balked at getting on board the rocking ferry and had to be let swim across. Sanglant and two of the soldiers stripped to go in with the horses, and Liath had to look away with her face burning while she listened to their companions, now unable to restrain themselves, making jests about wedding nights and “riding” and other coarse jokes.

“I pray you,” said Sanglant sternly when he rejoined them, “do not make light of the marriage bed, or my bride, who will have a difficult enough time at the king’s court as it is.” They looked a little shamefaced, but he soon pried them out of it by asking each man about his home and family and what battles he had fought in.