The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

“That will do. It will ease the pain.”

She eased her weight off his shoulder and brushed fingers caressingly along one cheek. He got hold of her braid and twisted it around his hand, letting its feel distract him, breathing out the pain with each breath until, piece by piece, he could relax.

“Blessing,” he said at last, when he could speak. “What of Blessing?”

“It is no form of sorcery I understand. Perhaps Da wrote of it in his book, but I don’t have his book anymore.”

“Hugh has your father’s book.”

“Hugh is another danger,” she agreed. “I will go back to Li’at’dano. I will convey to her your wish for a council. I will ask her to do what she can to protect Blessing.”

“Can we trust them? They destroyed the old empire. They feared and hated them. They fear humankind now.”

“I trust Li’at’dano.”

“Do you trust her with your daughter’s life?”

“Do you trust me with it, Sanglant?”

“Ah!” It was an unexpected stab, a knife in the dark. The words came hard, after all that had passed, but he said them. “Do what you must.”

4

“NO.”

The stink of Willibrod’s sorcery filled the tent and made Alain’s eyes run, yet he wept with sadness and disgust as well. Reaching behind his own back, he found the coarse cloth of the tent, the flap that covered the entrance, and gripped it. “I will not join you. And you will not kill me. You have no power over me.”

“I have power,” whispered Willibrod.

“The power to turn men’s hearts so they eat at themselves and succumb to the worst that is in them. The power to make others suffer. The power to prey on the weak. I am not weak.”

“You are alone.” Willibrod took a step toward him, but Alain held his ground and jerked the flap aside to let light stream in.

Willibrod shrieked, staggering backward. He groped for the hat and veil while, outside, Rage and Sorrow began such a clamor of barking that the folk who had crept close to listen scattered in fear.

“Can you bear the touch of the sun? Or the touch of the earth? You are vulnerable, Willibrod. By abusing your power you have forged the weapon that will kill you.”

Willibrod was still whimpering in pain as he struggled to settle the veil over his face. Alain stepped sideways out of the tent and stood on the lowered tailgate of the wagon. Rage lunged toward Bartholomew and a gang of five other men who had sidled forward, and they bolted back to a safe distance. Red hefted his staff to protect himself, but the hound danced out of his range.

“Father Benignus is not master over life and death!” Alain pitched his voice to carry, knowing that the fear the bandits felt in the presence of Willibrod worked to his advantage. Anger made him reckless. “He can hurt you only as long as you wear the amulets he gave you.”

“They protect us against death!” shouted Bartholomew. “No man wearing the amulet has died in battle.”

“Against what implacable enemy have you fought? Poor peasants? Frightened children? Folk who have no better weapons than their shovels and hoes? Would you fare as well against armed men? Because armed men will come soon. The levy of Lord Arno will ride, alerted by my companions. How will you survive against trained men-at-arms?”

The wagon rocked under his feet, and he jumped off the tailgate and landed on the earth.

“Will Father Benignus protect you? He cannot even protect himself! Has light touched his skin since the day he first gathered you together? Have his feet touched this earth? He fears light and earth, because he is not a strong man but a weak one. He needs you for one purpose only, to bring him souls to drink to keep his husk alive for one day longer. In the end, he will eat your souls, too, because his hunger rules him.”

He had them now. A score whispered, backing away, as Willibrod pushed past the entrance flap. The maleficus was once again veiled and gloved with not a speck of skin showing. Women cowered against the stone ridge.

“Kill him,” said Willibrod. “The man who kills him can have his choice among the women tonight.”

Alain took a step toward the gathered men. Theirs were a bleak line of faces, some worn and weary, some merely fashioned, like untrained dogs, to jerk where each least instinct pulled them.

“Is this the reward he gives you? That you can force women who get no pleasure from the act and will hate you afterward?”

“What care we if they hate us,” cried Dog-Ears, “if we get the pleasure in doing them? I was a slave in a lord’s steading and there were no women for me there and never would be. Now at least I’ve something I hadn’t before.”