“But isn’t it easier to climb up than to climb down?” wailed poor Constantine, who looked truly frightened, more like a little boy than a young man. “We’ll never live to get there!”
“Hush, now, Brother,” said Rosvita. “We must go on and trust that God will see us through safely.” She gave Fortunatus a hand and helped him struggle to his feet, no easy task on a path washed slick with endless rain. But at least it hadn’t starting snowing.
“We ought to have waited in Bregez,” cried Constantine, “and crossed next summer!”
Fortunatus snorted. “With a royal bride and all of Aosta within our grasp! You can be sure that the Aostan lords won’t bide their time through winter and spring.”
Rosvita set a hand on Constantine’s shoulder. He was trembling. “We have come this far, Brother, and it is only the first week of autumn. We’ve just had ill fortune with this rain. There is nothing we can do but go on.” Were those tears in his eyes or was it only the rain?
o;But nevertheless alive. And Tallia is her daughter, of age, and married—so she will in time produce an heir.”
Alain found a burr in Steadfast’s coat and busied himself worrying it free.
“But I don’t believe she plots treason. I think she is merely paying court. Prudence dictates that she ought to. Henry is not overly pleased with his three legitimate children. Tallia has as much right to the throne as any of them do.”
Suddenly the only noise Alain heard was the pounding of his heart and the slow wheeze of Steadfast, drawing in a labored breath and letting it out again. “The throne?”
“You must be ready for anything.” Lavastine stroked Steadfast’s head. His frown was fleeting but more frightening because of that. “This wound is exactly like the one inflicted on Ardent. Three incidents, taken together, suggest a pattern, and while Prince Sanglant acted strangely after his rescue, still, we all heard rumors about Bloodheart’s enchantments. There is also the testimony of your dreams. Dreams are often false, but I think yours are true visions. It is better to assume we are threatened by a curse than to do nothing.”
Ai, God. It was like the battle of Gent all over again; watching your faithful retainers fall one by one as they protected you. It made Alain sick at heart to see the hounds suffer so. “The deacon must bless this hall, and place an amulet over every threshold.”
“I dislike resorting to sorcery. Yet … Send a mage to kill a mage. We must speak to the deacon about this matter, and send word to Biscop Thierra. She may have certain clerics among her schola who can drive out demons and other creatures molded in the fires of the Abyss.”
“What about guards?”
“It would be wise, I suppose. But we are better protected by the hounds.”
“They always know,” said Alain. “They can smell it.”
“You must not go out alone, Alain. You must be careful.”
“It’s not stalking me—”
“How can we know? Curses are driven by hate, not intelligence. I will not risk you, Son. We must behave as if any person who marched to Gent is under attack.” He sighed suddenly and reached to tweak Alain’s sleeve straight. “You will need another cloak. Here, now, open the shutters. Give her some light. Perhaps if we soak the wound, and draw out the poison—”
But in the end it mattered not. It took her six days to die.
7
RAIN poured down in torrents. It had been days since they had seen the sky or even the steep ridges around them as they struggled through the Julier Pass on their way to Aosta. The road had washed into mud, and Rosvita had given up riding on her mule and now, like every other soul in Princess Theophanu’s army, she picked her way along the path one foothold at a time.
“Beware!” The shout startled her.
Ahead, the horrible ripping sound of sliding rock made her stop dead. She clutched the reins of her mule and muttered a prayer. Arms waving, Brother Fortunatus slipped from the path in a cascade of mud and gravel.
“Brother!” she cried, but she had learned not to move. She had seen a pack mule and drover lost that way, walking where the ground had just poured over the path. But God were merciful this day. Fortunatus fetched up a man’s height below them, and once the mud had stopped moving, the men-at-arms threw down ropes to drag him up. He had lost his mule the day before when it had gone over the cliff, caught in yet another avalanche of mud and shale.
“I hear we’re almost at the top!” Fortunatus cried cheerfully after he had caught his breath. “It certainly looks farther down to the rocks than it did yesterday!” He was coated with mud, but then, they all were.
“But isn’t it easier to climb up than to climb down?” wailed poor Constantine, who looked truly frightened, more like a little boy than a young man. “We’ll never live to get there!”
“Hush, now, Brother,” said Rosvita. “We must go on and trust that God will see us through safely.” She gave Fortunatus a hand and helped him struggle to his feet, no easy task on a path washed slick with endless rain. But at least it hadn’t starting snowing.
“We ought to have waited in Bregez,” cried Constantine, “and crossed next summer!”
Fortunatus snorted. “With a royal bride and all of Aosta within our grasp! You can be sure that the Aostan lords won’t bide their time through winter and spring.”
Rosvita set a hand on Constantine’s shoulder. He was trembling. “We have come this far, Brother, and it is only the first week of autumn. We’ve just had ill fortune with this rain. There is nothing we can do but go on.” Were those tears in his eyes or was it only the rain?