The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

The answer gave Hathui pause as she swung onto her mare and, turning, gazed with an expression of dismay at Hanna. “What do you mean to do?”

“I mean to do as Princess Theophanu commanded me. I will ride to Aosta to the king.”

“Hanna!”

“I can be as stubborn as you, Hathui.” But as she spoke the words, she felt the wasp sting burn in her heart. Was she turning away from Sorgatani because the Kerayit princess had not rescued her from the Quman? Was she punishing Sanglant, who had betrayed his own people by letting Bulkezu live? Or was she only doing what was right?

“You can’t have understood what I’ve told you—”

“I understand it well enough. I will deliver Theophanu’s message, as is my duty. I will deliver my report about the Quman invasion to King Henry, as I swore I would. I shall see for myself how he responds.”

“You cannot trust them! What they might do to you—”

“They can do nothing worse to me than what I’ve already suffered.”

Imperceptibly, as they spoke, the sun had burned off the fog, and now light broke across the clearing. Dew sparkled on nettles and glistened on ripe berries, quickly wicked away by the heat of the sun. The morning breeze faded and a drowsy summer glamour settled over the green wood, broken only by the song of birds and the caw of an irritated crow.

The light of camaraderie had fled from Hathui’s face, replaced by the expression of a woman who has seen the thing she loves best poisoned and trampled. “So be it. You have chosen your path. I have chosen mine.”

Enough, thought Hanna. I have made my choice. The core of rage that these days never left her had hardened into iron. As long as Bulkezu lived, she would never give loyalty, aid, or trust to the man who had refused to punish him as he deserved.

“So be it,” she echoed.

There were three paths leading out of the clearing. She would ride hers alone.

PART TWO

THE UNCOILING YEAR

III

AN ADDER IN THE PIT

1

IN the east, so it was said, the priests of the Jinna god Astareos read omens in fire. They interpreted the leap and crackle of flames, the shifting of ash along charred sticks, and the gleam of coals sinking into patterns among the cinders, finding in each trifling movement a message from the god revealing his will and the fate of those who worshiped him. But no matter how hard Zacharias stared at the twisting glare of the campfire, he could not tease any meaning from the blaze. It looked like a common fire to him, cheerfully devouring sticks and logs. Like fire, the passage of time devoured all things, even a man’s life, until it was utterly consumed. Afterward, there was only the cold beauty of an infinite universe indifferent to the fate of one insignificant human soul.

He shuddered, although on this balmy summer’s night he ought not to be cold.

“What do you think, Brother Zacharias? Do you believe the stories about the phoenix and the redemption?”

Startled, he glanced up from the fire at Chustaffus. The stocky soldier regarded him with an affable smile on his homely face. “What phoenix?” he asked.

“He wasn’t listening,” said Surly. “He never does.”

“He’s seeing dragons in the fire,” retorted Lewenhardt, the archer. “Or our future,” said quiet Den.

“Or that damned phoenix you won’t shut up about, Chuf,” added Surly, punching Chustaffus on the shoulder.

They all laughed, but in a friendly way, and resumed their gossip as they ate their supper of meat, porridge, and ale around their campfire, one of about fifty such fires scattered throughout pasturelands outside the Ungrian settlement of Nabanya. Why Prince Sanglant’s loyal soldiers tolerated a ragged, cowardly, apostate frater in their midst Zacharias could never understand, but he was grateful for their comradeship all the same. It allowed him to escape, from time to time, the prince’s court, where he served as interpreter, and the grim presence of his worst enemy who was, unfortunately, not dead yet.

“Prince Ekkehard was a traitor,” said Den. “I don’t think we should believe anything he said.”

“But he wasn’t the only one who spoke of such stories,” insisted Chustaffus. “Men died because they believed in the redemption. They were willing to die. Takes a powerful belief to embrace martyrdom like that.”

“Or a powerful stupidity.” Surly drained his cup and searched around for more ale, but they had drunk their ration. “I don’t believe it.”

“It wasn’t heresy that saved Prince Ekkehard,” said black-haired Everwin, who spoke rarely but always at length. “I hear he was treated like a lord by the Quman. If that Eagle’s testimony was true, and I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t believe it, then there’s many honest, God-fearing folk who died while Prince Ekkehard ate his fill of their plundered food and drank stolen wine and dandled women, none of them willing to have been thrown into his bed. They might have been any of our sisters forced to please him or die.”