The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars 3)

“It isn’t a heresy, Hanna.” He had changed. He rested a hand lightly on her arm and spoke with the same persuasive fervor as had his frail friend, although his voice hadn’t the same music in it. “It’s truth. You didn’t see the miracle of the phoenix. If you had, you’d not wonder why Prince Ekkehard prays with us now when he only tolerated us before.”

“What kind of miracle?” she asked, although she did not like to do so: this new Ivar made her nervous. Once, like a climbing rose, he had grown luxuriantly and with spontaneity. Now, he seemed like a vine trained to a fretwork that some other person had constructed.

“A miracle of healing—” Then he caught sight of the ring, and his expression changed again. “But what’s this? Has some great lord seduced you with the wealth of worldly goods?”

“The king gave me this as a reward for my service!” she retorted, furious. “How dare you accuse me—”

“It’s what Liath did!” he cried. Then, perhaps hearing that name, Margrave Judith’s pretty husband called to him, and Ivar hesitated only a moment before walking away with a curt farewell. Had they grown so far apart? Was their old closeness so quickly ripped into nothing? She walked away, agitated and disturbed, nor did the warm night promise anything better. No matter where she lay down her blanket, dampness seeped through as soon as she settled her weight onto it. She didn’t sleep well, and when she lay awake, she twisted the emerald ring round and round on her finger.

At dawn, as they made ready to leave, the deacon came to them again with her two Salavii companions.

“There’s been word,” she said, translating as the old man spoke in a harsh, impenetrable language. “An army has been sighted east of here carrying the Wendish banner. These people will retreat to an old hill fort north of here. There they’ll hope to weather the storm. But he’ll lend you the boy to guide you to the other army, if you’ll swear by God and to my satisfaction that you’ll not harm the lad and that you’ll release him as soon as you’ve met the scouts of the other army. As I said,” she added when the old man was done talking, “they don’t trust the Wendish.”

The deal was done, and certain objects changed hands: the young man came to stand nervously beside Hanna’s horse, and Captain Thiadbold saw fit to reward the old Salavii man for these services with a good wool tunic, linen leggings, and a pair of boots—they had belonged to the Lion who died of dysentery, and no one wanted to wear them because of the agony in which he’d died.

The Salavii lad was skittish. He would not accept food or drink from them, nor did he speak a single word for the rest of the day as he led them first east, then south down a narrower track, and then northeast along a broad but shallow stream running through woodland and meadows. In late afternoon they were challenged by half a dozen mounted scouts, and by the time Hanna had established that they had, indeed, met up with Princess Sapientia’s army, the lad was gone, vanished into the ash and aspen that lined the stream, which she now saw was only a tributary of a larger river.

At the confluence of stream and river, where the river itself curled around a small hill, Bayan had set up camp with his usual keen eye and cunning. To the north lay denser forest, mostly oak and pine, and to the west and south scattered woodland and grass. To the east, hills rose in a steep escarpment, and the rise which Bayan had chosen seemed like the last straggler, or first scout, of that army of hills. Some ancient people had built a structure on this hill, worn now into low earthen ramparts that crowned the height. It reminded her of a fort gone to ruin, the kind of place where people and livestock could defend themselves against an enemy. There might have been some tumbled stones there as well, but from this distance, and angle, it was hard to make out. Bayan—for she’d no doubt that Bayan had overseen the placement of the encampment—had pitched the royal pavilion on the hill itself where one rampart, like a curling finger, gave it shelter. The wagon in which his mother traveled rested about ten strides away, hard up against a curve in the rampart. Was the Kerayit princess still with the old woman? Or were Hanna’s dreams true dreams?

Now she would find out.

The rest of the encampment straggled down from that central point in rings, each ring of tents protected by fresh ditches, none particularly deep but enough to break up a cavalry charge. Riding at the van, she could see the doubled sentries as well as restless scouts roaming in pairs and half dozens on horseback. Woodland covered the western vista; to the east, woods followed the river’s valley where it cut a wide pass into the hills. The camp was ready for war. On high alert, men napped in their armor with their spears lying as close beside them as might lovers. Many of the horses remained saddled, and the rest were being groomed or watered. To the northwest, riders oversaw the foraging of perhaps forty or fifty horses in the open woodland.

Half the camp came out to welcome them. Hanna wasn’t sure she’d ever seen so many soldiers assembled in one place before, except at the battle of the Elmark Valley, near the town of Kassel, when Henry had defeated Sabella. Princess Sapientia’s banner stirred in the breeze. There were other banners as well at tents and pavilions only somewhat less grand than that of the princess, but she only recognized one of them: the leaping panther of Margrave Judith.

o;A miracle of healing—” Then he caught sight of the ring, and his expression changed again. “But what’s this? Has some great lord seduced you with the wealth of worldly goods?”

“The king gave me this as a reward for my service!” she retorted, furious. “How dare you accuse me—”

“It’s what Liath did!” he cried. Then, perhaps hearing that name, Margrave Judith’s pretty husband called to him, and Ivar hesitated only a moment before walking away with a curt farewell. Had they grown so far apart? Was their old closeness so quickly ripped into nothing? She walked away, agitated and disturbed, nor did the warm night promise anything better. No matter where she lay down her blanket, dampness seeped through as soon as she settled her weight onto it. She didn’t sleep well, and when she lay awake, she twisted the emerald ring round and round on her finger.

At dawn, as they made ready to leave, the deacon came to them again with her two Salavii companions.

“There’s been word,” she said, translating as the old man spoke in a harsh, impenetrable language. “An army has been sighted east of here carrying the Wendish banner. These people will retreat to an old hill fort north of here. There they’ll hope to weather the storm. But he’ll lend you the boy to guide you to the other army, if you’ll swear by God and to my satisfaction that you’ll not harm the lad and that you’ll release him as soon as you’ve met the scouts of the other army. As I said,” she added when the old man was done talking, “they don’t trust the Wendish.”

The deal was done, and certain objects changed hands: the young man came to stand nervously beside Hanna’s horse, and Captain Thiadbold saw fit to reward the old Salavii man for these services with a good wool tunic, linen leggings, and a pair of boots—they had belonged to the Lion who died of dysentery, and no one wanted to wear them because of the agony in which he’d died.

The Salavii lad was skittish. He would not accept food or drink from them, nor did he speak a single word for the rest of the day as he led them first east, then south down a narrower track, and then northeast along a broad but shallow stream running through woodland and meadows. In late afternoon they were challenged by half a dozen mounted scouts, and by the time Hanna had established that they had, indeed, met up with Princess Sapientia’s army, the lad was gone, vanished into the ash and aspen that lined the stream, which she now saw was only a tributary of a larger river.

At the confluence of stream and river, where the river itself curled around a small hill, Bayan had set up camp with his usual keen eye and cunning. To the north lay denser forest, mostly oak and pine, and to the west and south scattered woodland and grass. To the east, hills rose in a steep escarpment, and the rise which Bayan had chosen seemed like the last straggler, or first scout, of that army of hills. Some ancient people had built a structure on this hill, worn now into low earthen ramparts that crowned the height. It reminded her of a fort gone to ruin, the kind of place where people and livestock could defend themselves against an enemy. There might have been some tumbled stones there as well, but from this distance, and angle, it was hard to make out. Bayan—for she’d no doubt that Bayan had overseen the placement of the encampment—had pitched the royal pavilion on the hill itself where one rampart, like a curling finger, gave it shelter. The wagon in which his mother traveled rested about ten strides away, hard up against a curve in the rampart. Was the Kerayit princess still with the old woman? Or were Hanna’s dreams true dreams?

Now she would find out.

The rest of the encampment straggled down from that central point in rings, each ring of tents protected by fresh ditches, none particularly deep but enough to break up a cavalry charge. Riding at the van, she could see the doubled sentries as well as restless scouts roaming in pairs and half dozens on horseback. Woodland covered the western vista; to the east, woods followed the river’s valley where it cut a wide pass into the hills. The camp was ready for war. On high alert, men napped in their armor with their spears lying as close beside them as might lovers. Many of the horses remained saddled, and the rest were being groomed or watered. To the northwest, riders oversaw the foraging of perhaps forty or fifty horses in the open woodland.

Half the camp came out to welcome them. Hanna wasn’t sure she’d ever seen so many soldiers assembled in one place before, except at the battle of the Elmark Valley, near the town of Kassel, when Henry had defeated Sabella. Princess Sapientia’s banner stirred in the breeze. There were other banners as well at tents and pavilions only somewhat less grand than that of the princess, but she only recognized one of them: the leaping panther of Margrave Judith.

As they came into camp, the army split into factions according to a complicated and confusing maneuver which she couldn’t follow, but in the end she approached the royal pavilion in the company of Prince Ekkehard, Lord Dietrich, who led the cavalry sent by King Henry, and Captain Thiadbold, representing the Lions.

The princess sat at her ease beneath the awning of her pavilion, eating a plum as she watched her husband roll dice with a young Wendish nobleman and a flamboyantly dressed Ungrian who boasted mustachios so long that he had tied them back behind his neck to keep them out of the way of his game. Brother Breschius stood quietly in attendance, and it was he who delicately interrupted the game, although by this time Sapientia had risen, seeing Ekkehard or, perhaps, Hanna. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a joyous reunion.

Bayan hadn’t forgotten her. He leaped up enthusiastically. “The snow woman to us returns!”

“You have come from my father,” said Sapientia, more coolly, glancing at her husband with the sudden pinched mouth common to those who distrust their intimates. “And who is this? Ekkehard?”

“Sister! Aren’t you glad to see me?” He dismounted and came forward, not waiting for permission. She embraced him in a sisterly fashion, kissing him on either cheek. He was taller than Sapientia, but she had gotten a little stouter in the past months, broader in the shoulders, and set against his youthful slimness she looked quite able to out arm wrestle him, should they set to it.

“God help us, little Cousin,” said the young nobleman who had been playing at dice with Bayan, “I thought for sure you’d be eaten alive by the Quman.”