“Yes, my lord prince. We numbered seventy-five men and fifty horses, many fewer than we have here, and even so the path was fraying as the last of us crossed through, according to the report of Sister Rosvita. She was almost lost as the pathway collapsed behind us. I think it unlikely we can move an army of this size through the crowns.”
“It is not possible,” agreed Li’at’dano. “That any sorcerer accomplished what you speak of—to guide a group as large as the one you speak of—is astonishing. The crowns were meant to accommodate small parties only.”
“Hugh did it,” said Liath in a dangerously rash tone.
“With only seventy-five men and fifty horses,” said Sanglant. “We have near a thousand. And a griffin, whose feathers are proof against magic.”
“Ai, God,” murmured Liath. “I had forgotten the griffin. Can such a creature even pass through the crowns?”
“If I may speak, my lord prince,” said Hathui. “My lady. Consider this as well. Sister Rosvita told me that months passed in the moment that they stepped through the crown.”
Fulk nodded. “As many of us here can attest.”
She acknowledged him and went on. “In that same way, I suppose, four years passed here on Earth while you experienced only a handful of days passing in the world above, according to your testimony.”
“Do you doubt her?” asked Li’at’dano.
Hathui’s smile was sharp. “Nay, Holy One, I do not doubt Liath, for I knew her before, if you will remember, when she was one of that company to which I hold allegiance.”
“Go on, Hathui,” said Sanglant. He had primed her for a speech, although she had cleverly adjusted her terms with the unexpected introduction of the stone crown.
“Sorcery is dangerous, my lord prince, and uncertain. It seems unlikely the entire army can pass through the crowns in any case. In addition, if all of us travel together, then how can we alert our supporters elsewhere? We ought not to move in a single group. It would be better to split up.”
“To split up?” he asked, knowing his lines as well as Hathui knew hers.
“When the storm comes, my lord, no one will be safe. Those who support the king and Wendar must know what to do. If they are not prepared, then whatever force convulses the Earth will be echoed by terrible strife among those who suffer and are afraid.”
Li’at’dano beckoned Hathui forward. “You are wise, Daughter,” said the old shaman. “I would look at you more closely, for it is not given to every creature to learn wisdom.”
“I thank you, Holy One,” murmured Hathui, but she glanced at Sanglant as if to say, “save me!” No one doubted Hathui’s courage, but it was clear that the Horse people, and particularly the ancient one, made her nervous.
“Go on,” said Sanglant, not wanting any of his people to show hesitation, and Hathui—not without trepidation—nudged her horse closer to Liath’s on the grass between the two groups, human and centaur, allied, yet in so many ways separate.
The shaman examined Hathui for a space before turning to Liath. “She is a worthy daughter. Will you give her to me as part of our bargain?”
“She is sworn to the regnant,” said Sanglant irritably. “One of his chosen Eagles. She must return to his hand at the end of her flight.”
“A pity,” mused Li’at’dano, but she made no further claim.
Liath saw the trap, but it was already sprung. “Will you and I not travel together?” she asked Sanglant.
Sanglant had never done a harder thing than what he did now. “To defeat Anne we need an army greater than the seven hundreds we have here. To defeat Anne we need an army greater even than that with which we defeated Bulkezu. A griffin brings me more than feathers to cut through the magic wielded by our enemies. It can bring me an army as well.”
Liath opened her mouth to protest, then fell silent. He went on.
“I must ride west to gather as many Quman as I can. Margrave Waltharia holds troops in readiness, waiting only for my return. From the marchlands I will turn south and draw more Wendish troops as I go. Brother Breschius assures me that the Brinne Pass remains passable for much of the year, if the weather holds fair. I’ll cross that way into Aosta, and march on Darre to free my father.”
“But—!” Color had leached from her face, leaving her gray with shock, and her hands clenched the reins until her knuckles turned white. Her horse minced under her, sensing her tension. “But that means we must—”
She could not speak the word. Neither could he. He could scarcely bear to think of it: That means we must part. Must separate again, not knowing how many months or years would pass until they met. Not knowing if they would ever meet.
It gave him no pleasure to twist the knife into her belly. “It has to be done this way. Do you believe that a griffin can cross through the crowns?”
She shook her head despairingly. “Nay. It seems likely its feathers will cut the threads of the spell. That way lies disaster for all who attempt the crossing.”
“Anne has woven her net well. She controls not just sorcery, and the crowns, but Henry’s and Adelheid’s armies as well. We must match her. This is the only way.”
She shut her eyes and said nothing, because she knew he was right. As much as he hated it, this was the only way.