“What can possibly threaten us more than Bulkezu and his army? Have you heard about the plague in Avaria? We’ve seen with our own eyes the trail of destruction the Quman army has left in its wake—villages burned and fields trampled. You can see yourself the dead he’s left, there at the walls. All the folk hereabouts, those who survived, say the fortress is haunted by the unavenged dead. A child’s ghost walks at midnight, crying for its mother.”
“Many a child cries for its mother,” said Sanglant, smoothly slipping into her rant, “but weeping for what we don’t have won’t defeat the Quman. Come, Sapientia, here is my daughter Blessing, your niece.”
Aunt and niece eyed each other. Sapientia had weathered her first extended campaign well. She had filled out, gained color, and moved with more confidence. But as she examined Blessing, he saw the old dance of envy warring with interest in her gaze. “I thought she looked like you. But this can’t be the Eagle’s child. She’s too old. Did you father her on some concubine before your imprisonment at Gent?”
He had learned to resign himself to the questions. Sometimes, the best answer was the simple truth. “Do not forget that sorcery runs in her blood. I can explain no better than you why she grows so fast. She was born in the spring, last year.”
“She looks like a well-grown girl of three or four years of age,” objected Sapientia, “not a toddling child of fifteen or sixteen months.”
“So she does.” He had learned to hide his fear. He did not understand what was happening to his daughter. At first he’d believed that the unearthly milk she imbibed from Jerna caused her to grow with unnatural speed, and maybe it had. But Jerna had left them, and Blessing still aged far more quickly than she ought. He had a bad idea that it would not end until Liath returned, as if a link bound Liath and Blessing so closely that what happened to one rebounded onto the other. If Liath only knew that, would she not return to spare her daughter?
She would, if she cared for them at all.
At moments like this, he wondered where his own mother had gone. Alia had deserted him, too—for the second time.
“You are a princess.” Blessing had remained silent long enough.
Sapientia did not quite recoil. “I am King Henry’s heir.”
“Oh,” said Blessing appreciatively, oblivious to these nuances, “I like him. He’s my grandfather.” Because she was a child who didn’t mind sharing, she went on. “I am the heir of Emperor Taillefer.”
“Does she say that to everyone?” asked Bayan as Sapientia’s mouth pursed with disapproval and she looked ready to say something rash.
“Only to those who deserve it. Come, sweet heart, where is the man you saw?”
Blessing grabbed his hand and, after a moment’s studious thought, grabbed Bayan’s hand as well. “This way!”
Even Sapientia laughed. “She is indeed Henry’s granddaughter.”
“Since you are a princess,” called Blessing as she dragged her escorts forward, “will you help me get the man?”
Anger sparked as quickly as amusement in Sapientia’s face. “Not one to listen to others, no matter whose need is greater. We could use these men in the army, and a few of these women, too, if they’re willing and strong enough.”
“An excellent idea,” cried Bayan. “My lion queen has a keen eye for worth. It is you who must pick out the ones who can fight and serve.”
“Think you so?” she asked, a flush making her cheeks bright as she turned to gaze at her husband. Sanglant had seen besotted women before; his sister looked no different, although she managed to keep her noble dignity intact as they walked together into the market.
Sanglant had never thought much one way or the other about merchants who trafficked in slaves. The heathen Jinna empire and the crafty Arethousans had an unending appetite for slaves, preferably boys cut to become eunuchs. Neither did Wendish merchants shy away from selling captured heathen tribespeople out of the east into servitude in the civilized west. These merchants had other wares available as well: linen and wool cloth; furs from the north; casks of salt; spoons of wood or ivory or tin; sickles, scythes, and hatchets of iron; whores, herbs, and spices, some more sweet smelling than others. But after a year confined by Bloodheart’s chains, Sanglant could not help but notice the suffering of their human merchandise.
Blessing tugged him and Bayan over to a ragged group of captives bound hand and foot. They had the look of defeated soldiers, the kind of troublemakers who needed to be trussed up so they couldn’t escape on the long march.
A Polenie merchant hurried up, bobbing up and down anxiously as he took in Sanglant’s Wendish clothing and noble bearing and Bayan’s Ungrian flair. He wore the typical Polenie hat, a pointed leather cap with a folded brim. “Your Most Excellencies,” he cried in passable Wendish, “here have I strong men who I take south to the slave markets of Arethousa. Have you a care to purchase them now? I can give you good price.”
Blessing marched up to the youngest of the captives, a lad of perhaps sixteen years with a blackened eye, bare feet, and the scarring of frostbite on his nose and ears. “I told you I would come back.” She turned to the merchant, expression fierce. “Thiemo is mine.”
“My lady—” began the merchant, glancing at Sanglant, not wanting to insult a prince’s daughter.
The youth began to weep, although it was hard to tell whether his tears were those of joy or thwarted hope. “My lady, is it true? Have you come to ransom me and my comrades?” Then he, too, noticed Sanglant and Bayan.
“Your Highness!” cried the lad, flushing hotly. Five of the men with him dropped hard to their knees. Under their dirt, Sanglant recognized the tabards of Lions.
“God save us,” murmured Bayan. “The heretics.”
Sapientia came up beside Bayan. She frowned, and when she narrowed her eyes in that particular way one could almost actually see her thinking. “Can it be? Are these the heretics banished after the trial at Handelburg? How did they get here? Where are the rest of them?”
“Dead,” said the eldest of the Lions. “Or better dead, considering what we ran into. Your Highness.” He bowed his head respectfully toward Sanglant. “I know you are Prince Sanglant. It’s said you’re a fair man. I pray you—”
“Daddy, I want him.”