The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars 3)

He and the servingmen reached Lavas Holding at sunset, and as they passed through the gates a lone rider came up behind them.

slap the side of the ship as they emerge from the sheltered fjord into the wind-chopped sound. Islands lie everywhere around them, some of them merely slabs of rock, some gently-rounded curves and green slopes. Goats scramble up from the beach, startled by their silent approach. The sky lies clear above, absolutely blue; the distance bleeds to a whitish haze as if the horizon is fading into the light. Sunlight glitters on the waves together with the scalloping ripples of the wind.

The sails go up, and wind fills their bellies. His standards flutter at the stem of each ship, a crest on the dragon-head which blazes their path through the seas.

Let others rest. Let others believe that Rikin will fester in disorder, hopelessly weakened by the collapse of Bloodheart’s hegemony. Any of his brothers, had they won, would have wasted their chance in a frenzy of bloodletting and useless petty revenges.

He stands at the stern, shading his eyes against the sun, and counts his ships. Out of what remained to him, he mustered fourteen. In their wake, other movements eddy. A slick back surfaces, and dives.

No one will expect Rikin’s tribe to strike so soon.

*   *   *

… and caught himself, reeling. The ant had reached the first knuckle of his hand. Without looking up, he heard the noise of horses, of distant laughter. For some reason the ant fascinated him. It scurried out along his thumb, crawled onto the stone, and was lost in the grass. But where his thumb lay on the stippled stone, in the shadow made by his body, he saw a tiny carving cut into the stone like a mason’s mark: a delicate rosette.

The rose, seen everywhere in this ancient ruin, was drawn in the stylized manner the Dariyans had used: seven rounded petals around a circular center. He pulled on the thong around his neck and pulled out the pouch, opened it. Although he reached in carefully, he still pricked his finger on a sharp thorn as he freed the rose from its leather hiding place and drew it out so he could look at it. It gleamed, and the blood welling up on his thumb was no darker than its petals.

His pulse beat time in his ears like the steady march of feet, soldiers in formation striding away. He could almost see them on the road, shadows flowing around him as they marched onward to some unknowable destination. A great plumed standard waved at the head of the line, turning in the wind, and wind whipped the stiff horsetail crests on the soldiers’ helmets. They had grim faces not unlike that of Prince Sanglant, high, flat cheekbones, a cast of feature unknown in Wendish and Varren lands. But among them marched more familiar faces, broad-shouldered men with pale hair, a tall woman with skin the color of pitch, a man with flaming red hair, and a stocky woman with scarred hands and eyes pulled tight at the corners. A woman rode along the line, calling out orders, or encouragement, or news. She, too, wore armor, polished to a high sheen. A hip-length red capelet trimmed with black fur concealed her back, and a short sword swung by her thigh. She carried a staff in her right hand which she raised as she called out. The short staff had a silver gleam to it, a sinuous dragon twining up its length. She, too, had the look of Sanglant, descendant of the Lost Ones. She shifted in the saddle, turned her horse, and light glinted on her painted shield, a red rose on a silver field. He blinked hard, half blinded.

The shadows passed. It was only Rage, looming over him to lick his face. He spluttered, sat back as he wiped saliva from his face, and looked around. Long shadows drew the print of ruined walls far across the clearing. Everyone else had left. He had no idea how long he had knelt here alone. He put the rose back in the pouch.

When he stood, two servants ventured cautiously forward, keeping well away from Sorrow and Rage. “My lord Alain, the count told us to escort you back.”

He nodded, still dizzy. They brought the horses, and he had to shake cobwebs out of his mind before he could remember how to mount. Where had Tallia gone? Had she just deserted him? Anger still burned, dull but nagging. Why did she have to be so stubborn? Why couldn’t she just love him?

But was that what God ordained when they decreed that there be harmony between female and male? That one should bow to the other’s desire? Would he truly be any different from Father Hugh, who had used his power to force Liath to lie with him? He remembered Margrave Judith’s handsome young husband. He had not looked particularly happy. Was that what he wanted for Tallia? That she merely acquiesce to his desires?

No. There was no other way but to coax her to do what was right, to change her mind. But that task was proving far harder than he had ever imagined it could be.

He and the servingmen reached Lavas Holding at sunset, and as they passed through the gates a lone rider came up behind them.

“My lord!” he called. “I bring a message from Varingia.”

The voice sounded strangely familiar. For an instant Alain saw a stranger, a young man with broad shoulders and a light brown beard. Then he recognized him. “Julien?”

The young man blushed and stammered. “M-my lord Alain!” He said it awkwardly, as though he had practiced words he’d known would be difficult to say.

“I didn’t think to see you here,” said Alain stupidly.

“I’m a man-at-arms serving the duchess of Varingia.”

A man-at-arms. He had a horse, a leather coat, a helm slung over his shoulder, a shield bearing the stallion of Varingia hanging from his saddle, and a spear. Bel would never have outfitted Alain so; Henri had promised his foster son to the church. Then he laughed suddenly. How could he possibly be so foolish as to envy Julien, or begrudge him his good fortune?

He clapped Julien on the shoulder. “Well met, cousin.” He was a count’s heir now; he could afford to be magnanimous—and ought to be. “How are Bel and Henri? How does everyone fare?”

Julien was still flushed and clearly uncomfortable, but after they left the horses at the stable he gave a halting account of the family: Bel and Henri were still strong; Stancy’s youngest had died of a fever, but she was pregnant again; Agnes’ betrothed had come to live with them, although they wouldn’t marry for two years yet; he himself had his eye on a young woman but he had to have Duchess Yolande’s permission to marry.

They walked to the hall where the evening’s supper had just commenced. The servingman had gone ahead, and a steward came forward to show Julien to a seat.

“Not ale and porridge!” said Alain at the sight of the humble meal set before Julien. “Bring something from the count’s table!” God Above! He would not have Julien reporting to Aunt Bel that Alain had treated him like a common servant, and fed him no better than this! He lingered long enough to see that Julien was brought wine, fowl, and other savories from the kitchen such as usually were reserved for the count’s table. The he took his place beside his father, let a servant wash his hands and face, and gratefully gulped down a cupful of wine.

“Who is that,” asked Lavastine, “to whom you show such marked favor?”

“My cousin Julien—not my cousin, I mean. He’s the eldest son of Bella of Osna village, the woman who fostered me. He always treated me as a cousin.”

“Why is he here?”

The shock of seeing Julien had driven everything else out of his head. “He serves the duchess of Varingia. He’s come on her business. I don’t know what it is.”