The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

The words dragged Hanna back as questions crowded her mind. How is it that he still lives? What grieves him?

Nay, she must concentrate. It seemed so long ago that she had last seen Liath, in disgrace at the palace at Werlida when she had married Sanglant against the wish of King Henry. She had ridden off secretly one night, never to return, but Hanna still saw her clearly, tall, a little too slender as if she never quite had enough to eat, her hair caught back in a braid, her eyes a fiery blue, as brilliant as the stars. In Heart’s Rest no one had ever believed Liath and her father to be anything except nobly born, brought down in the world by fortune’s wheel. But Liath had never treated Hanna differently by reason of birth. Liath had seen her as another soul, equal in the sight of God.

Ai, God. Where was Liath now?

Fire flared brightly among the coals before dying back as abruptly as if an icy wind smothered them.

She sank back onto her heels, sweating and trembling. Tears streaked her face. Was she crying for Liath, for Alain, or for herself? She wiped her nose.

“Nothing,” said Hugh. “As I told you, Liath no longer walks on Earth.”

“Who is that young man she saw?” the skopos asked again. “He looks familiar…. Nay, I do not know him.”

“He was attended by hounds who might have been litter-mates to the one who guards me. Is this one not a descendant of Taillefer’s famous hounds? Why do I see its kinfolk at the side of a common boy? Eagle, what man was that you saw in the flames?”

How could she lie to a sorcerer so powerful that she could see into the vision formed by Hanna’s own Eagle’s Sight? “His name is Alain, Holy Mother. He was heir to Count Lavastine until—”

“Lavastine!”

Hanna winced at the sharp tone, but that slight movement alerted the hound, which scrabbled out from under the throne to loom over her. The growl that rumbled in its throat was so low as to be almost inaudible. She shrank back. With only a word’s command, it would rip her face off.

“Lavastine.” The word was whispered with the calculation of a general about to embark on a holy campaign. “Sister Abelia, you will leave tomorrow to seek out Brother Severus. I want the one called Alain found and brought to me.”

“Yes, Holy Mother.”

The skopos rose and left the room with her attendant. The hound click-clacked after her; its nails needed filing. Hanna wondered, wildly, idly, who dared groom it.

“Do you know where Liath is, Hanna?” asked Hugh once the curtain had fallen into place behind the skopos and her attendant. “Have you seen her in the flames?”

“I have not, Your Excellency.”

“Do you know what happened to her, Hanna?”

“I have heard the tale Prince Sanglant tells—that fiery daimones stole her.”

“Do you believe it?”

She fixed her gaze on the mural. The temblor had shaken open a crack that split the plaster base right through the blessed Daisan’s left foot. “For what reason would Prince Sanglant lie, Your Excellency?”

“Indeed, for what reason?”

A glance told her everything she needed to know: he was not Bulkezu, who savored the battle of wills. He was not even looking at her; he had dismissed her already. The monster Bulkezu had seen her as a person of some account, almost as a peer, because she was the luck of a Kerayit shaman. Because she dared stand up to him. To Hugh she was only a servant. He recalled her name because of her bond with Liath. She did not matter to him at all; only Liath did, then and now.

Which gave her a measure of freedom she had never had with Bulkezu.

“Prince Sanglant is no poet, Your Excellency. It is poets who make up tales to confuse and beguile their listeners. I do not think he could have concocted a false trail to lead his enemies astray. That is not his way.”

He gave a slight noise in assent. “No, he is not an educated man. There is a child as well. Does she live still?”

“When I last saw the prince, she did.”

“Does she look like her mother?”

Strange that a cold draft should twist through the hall, chilling her neck. “In some manner, Your Excellency. She resembles both her mother and father. She is very young still.”

“Very young still,” he agreed, as if to himself, as if he had forgotten Hanna was there, “and soft, as youth is soft and malleable. It is too bad Brother Marcus failed. Still, there may yet be a way….”

She braced herself, expecting more questions.