Child of Flame (Crown of Stars 4)

Shevros’ words struck the others to silence. They watched from concealment as the retinue entered through the gate and disappeared behind the palisade bank, but they had all glimpsed the figure wearing a magnificent headdress composed of iridescent blue-green feathers.

With a heavy voice, Agalleos spoke. “There can only be one reason the high priest of Serpent Skirt would leave his temple in the City of Skulls. He must be going out to oversee the return of an important prisoner. Or to kill her.”

They looked at each other, then, the uncle and his two young nephews. They were speaking not with words but with their expressions. Questions were asked, a decision made, and Alain did not yet even understand what was going on.

But they did.

“I’ll go back,” said Shevros. “I know the worm’s road best.” He grinned, just a little, as he looked at his twin. “I know you, Maklos. You’ll not be content if you don’t go forward. I wish you glory of it. Just don’t get yourself killed.” He grabbed his twin by the shoulders and kissed him soundly on either cheek.

“What’s going on?” demanded Alain. They looked at him as if they had forgotten he was there. Agalleos’ words penetrated far enough to waken in his mind the conversation he’d had with Laoina in those last moments before they’d parted. Rage whined. At the northern gate, the priest and his escort appeared again, supported by a dozen men from the outpost as they marched to the ford and began the crossing. “You think that party is going to fetch the Holy One, from wherever she is being held prisoner.”

“We must follow them,” said Agalleos. “We cannot risk losing their trail. Shevros will return by the worm’s road to the camp and alert the queen. Then she can send a raiding party this far, at least. That way, maybe, we can rescue the Holy One. Otherwise…” He shrugged, making the gesture, at his throat, of a knife slitting the skin.

“I have to go back to the camp, to Adica.”

“If you must, then go.” Agalleos said the words without anger or accusation. “But if you go with Shevros, you must go now, and you must leave your spirit guides with us. We’ll take care of them as best as we are able. We’ll bring them safely back to you, if we can.”

Shevros was already shedding most of his gear, taking only a knife, two waterskins, and a pouch of food. His shield, his spear, even his sword he left behind.

“Ai, God,” murmured Alain, sick to the depths of his heart. The hounds gazed at him patiently. Tears welled in his eyes but did not fall.

Shevros, ready, turned to look at him expectantly, waiting for his decision.

“Why is the Holy One so important?” Alain asked finally, hearing the words tumble out, feeling as might a man scrabbling for a branch to grab onto as he slides over the edge of a cliff.

“Without the shaman of the Horse people,” said Agalleos, “so I have heard, the Hallowed Ones cannot work their magic. That is all I know.” He glanced impatiently toward the ford, where half of the priest’s party had already crossed. A raft had been brought for the man wearing the feather headdress. “That is all I need to know. I am theirs to command in the war against the Cursed Ones.”

“The Holy One brought me here,” murmured Alain. “She saved my life.”

There wasn’t really any choice. He had a debt to pay. Honor obliged him. And anyway, he could never abandon the hounds.

“I’ll stay with you.”

4

SHE dreamed.

Seven jewels on the seven points of the crown worn by Emperor Taillefer, all gleaming, yet they recede before her, or she falls away and upward, and their light spreads out until a band of darkness lies between each discrete point, like a thousand leagues of land between them, a vast crown of stars straddling the land itself. But where the brilliant light winks, it turns over in the manner of a restless beast as she walks into a cavern heaped with treasure. Young Berthold, Villam’s missing son, sleeps peacefully, gold and silver his bed. Six attendants lie in slumber around him. Their respiration breathes a soft mist into the air, churning and twisting, and through that mist she sees into another landscape where a woman with wings of flame wanders through a cold and barren land. The winged woman’s face is turned away, but surely she knows her; surely she has only to speak to touch her.

“Sister, I pray you. Wake up.”

She woke suddenly, into the darkness. A lamp hovered overhead, held by the nervous hand of her servant Aurea.

“Sister.”

“What is it, Brother Fortunatus?”

He sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hand. She could feel how cold her hand was in contrast to the warmth of his fingers. “Are you well enough to rise today?” he asked, glancing anxiously toward the door, still hidden in the early morning shadows.

Aurea set down the lamp and frowned at the cleric, although her heart wasn’t in it. Rosvita had long suspected that Aurea had taken a liking to Fortunatus, but he had vowed his life to the church and, unlike certain of his brethren, kept steadfastly to his pledge of chastity and devotion to God. “I told you not to be bothering my lady,” she said, “even if it’s true she’s much better.”

“You were ill, too, Fortunatus,” said Rosvita.

“The summer fever afflicted many of us, Sister,” he agreed, “but I am well enough now.”

“You’re too thin. I can see that you’re still tired.”

“This would not wait, Sister.”