Child of Flame (Crown of Stars 4)

A familiar voice is speaking. She had heard it so often that it takes her several breaths to get over her surprise that, after all these months, she is listening to Prince Bayan. “If it is true Bulkezu rides north along the Veser, then what prevents him from swinging wide, around this city, and going on his merry way, as Prince Sanglant says? Bulkezu can leave a force of small size camped outside the walls, and with this force he can trick Duchess Rotrudis so she will believe he sets a siege at her gates. Then, if she so believes, she will not harry him until for her and for Saony it is too late.”

Hazy figures too indistinct to see clearly shift within the fire. She can make out none of their faces, but the man who speaks next she recognizes immediately as Sanglant. “And he can do as much damage as he likes. Or he could strike west before he even reaches Osterburg and go for Kassel or the Rhowne heartlands near Autun. The best we could hope for in that case would be that he drives all the way to the western sea and spends his fury laying waste to Salia.”

“What do you think we should do, Prince Sanglant?” How have they all come together? How many have gathered? For surely that voice belongs to Captain Thiadbold, of the Lions. Seated figures obscure him, a host of grim warriors holding a council of war. Lamplight shoots blinding lances across her vision, so that all she can do is hear.

“I say we march hard and try to reach Osterburg before he does.”

His words fade as a hand catches her shoulder and draws her backward. Briefly, so briefly, she sees a black-haired child asleep on a bed of furs, and it seems as though a flame burns at the child’s heart, blue-white and almost a living thing, twisting and hissing.

“Liath,” she whispered, starting out of her trance as the hissing rose in pitch. She fell back and caught herself on her hands.

Cherbu sat on the other side of the fire, whistling death onto the fire. Flames curled and died, subsiding into red coals. Ash settled. A cool wind stirred the forest. Far away, a wolf howled despairingly.

“So.” Bulkezu crouched behind her, his hand gripping her shoulder. This time, he wasn’t going to let go until he got what he wanted. “Where is she?”

The prisoners had all slunk away or pretended to sleep. She could scarcely blame them for abandoning her to those whom they had no power to resist. No doubt they were happy to have escaped punishment. The night guards stood farther back, half hidden by darkness. That she could see them at all was because of the waxing quarter moon, riding high over the treetops.

A scarecrow danced under the nearest tree, dangling from a rope. Nay, not a scarecrow but1 a man. She recognized him by his clothing: Boso, hanged by the neck.

An owl hooted, but although she glanced past the swaying corpse, she saw no sign of the bird. Maybe that sound was only a lingering hallucination from the vision seen through fire.

Maybe hope woven together with fear made you see those half truths that made living bearable, when otherwise you would only lie down and die.

Bulkezu spoke again, and this time his hand tightened on her shoulder. His breath, sweetened by mint, tickled the side of her face that he had bruised. “Where is Liathano, the sorcerer who can raise such a fire that it consumes an entire palace?”

Trapped. Beaten. Maybe it had all been a trick to force her to reveal what slight power she had, the knowledge called Eagle’s sight.

She fell forward to hide her face in her hands. She knew her shoulders were shaking, shuddering. Pray that he believed it was utter defeat convulsing her.

She thought hard about Ivar, the way he had laughed at his own stupid jokes, the time they had hidden in the branches of the lovers’ oak and rained a basketful of pine needles down on her brother Thancmar and his sweetheart, the expedition to old Johan’s house to recapture the russet chicken, endless races in the meadow, the first and only time he kissed her, before Liath came, before Liath had unwittingly ensnared him.

When there were enough tears, she lowered her hands.

“Osterburg,” she whispered. “She’s at Osterburg.”

XVI

INTO THE DARKNESS

1

HORN was dead, and her spirit had vanished into the darkness. As keening and crying broke out, Adica struggled to stay calm. Was that Horn’s soul she had seen, twisting upward? Had she really heard Shu-Sha’s booming voice? Had they any chance of defeating the Cursed Ones if the Holy One had been taken prisoner?

Alain knelt beside Horn’s body, but before he could touch the slack corpse, her young apprentice yanked his hand away.

“Shu-Sha calls for our aid,” said Two Fingers. “Yet how can it be that she has called to us over such a great distance, using Horn’s body?”

There was no time to ponder such questions. “We must go quickly if we are to have any chance to save the Holy One,” said Adica. “Horn said there was a path we could take.”

Two of Horn’s people came forward and spoke in low voices to Laoina. “Come,” said the Akka woman. She led them into a tunnel, torches bobbing alongside.

Two Fingers examined Alain’s injured hand by torchlight. He shook his head, raising a puzzled eyebrow. “It heals,” he said, before turning to grasp Adica’s hands in his own. “Weave well, little sister.” Then he was gone, so fast, and the light vanished with him.

Probably she would never see him again.

She caught in a gasp of pain. The darkness was like claws, tearing at her, exposing the fear she had so ruthlessly shoved away all this time. She struggled to fight it back down, to seal it up so that it would not betray her.

In the darkness, Laoina spoke in the tongue of Horn’s people and was answered by a man. She translated. “This person has come to guide us. We must climb down into the heart of the Earth. There lie paths unknown to humankind, where the Bent People live. They are the ones who can guide us on unseen roads to the fort of Shu-Sha’s tribe.” Another hurried dialogue ensued, and Laoina went on. “This man says, where we go, dogs cannot follow. Dogs we must leave.”