Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars 7)

“Stay here.” Rosvita took three steps forward. “Are your people slaves to the Eika now?” she asked boldly.

The youth’s grin was as swift and subtle as Fortunatus’. “I am not a slave to any man, or any Eika master. Nor are my people ruled by one regnant, as yours are. What my mothers choose for my house may not necessarily be chosen by another house.”

“How comes it you speak of an emperor? Taillefer is dead, and King Henry’s imperial crown lost in the south after the cataclysm.”

“If you wish to know, come and see,” said the youth with that same charming, reckless grin, daring her.

He reminded her of the best of her clerics. Those she loved best she had liked most quickly, knowing it a flaw to make a judgment in haste but succumbing nevertheless to that impulse. She liked him, and that would only make worse the choice she knew she had to make. Maybe it was a sin—surely it was—but in war you use the weapons you have. These Eika would slaughter Henry’s faithful Lions, and Sanglant’s hope to restore Henry’s kingdom to peace.

She stepped back. “Ingo,” she murmured, “go swiftly with Peter. Let every person in our company know they must drop to the ground and cover their face at once.”

He blanched, but he nodded.

Fortunatus touched her sleeve. “I will stay with you, Sister.”

“It will be dangerous,” she said without looking at him, seeking instead to be sure that Ingo understood her meaning. The Lion nodded. She offered him her ring. He kissed it, then walked rapidly toward the wagons and his soldiers. Peter followed him.

She turned back to the interpreter.

“I pray you, a moment of patience.” She regretted the lie, because he was a quicksilver lad with a bright expression and clever eyes. “I have sent the soldiers to summon the most holy abbess who commands our company.”

The envoy glanced at the standard-bearer. They exchanged a look, and it seemed to her a subtle request for permission from the Eika. So much for not having a master. That gesture decided her. He might be a fine and graceful young man, but he was the enemy.

God enjoined mercy, but her heart must be hard.

There whispered through the ranks of the Eika a lazy wind that she perceived as she saw their bone-white hair lifted by that breeze, as she heard their handsome ornaments tinkling where the wind shifted through. That chime provided a most peculiar and delicate counterpoint to their forbidding silence and closed countenances.

The Hessi youth examined her with interest. He had a light gaze that leaped here and there as though he could not keep his attention on any one thing, and yet she mistrusted it; where he looked, he looked hard.

The wind sighed a second time, and changed direction to blow up behind their backs. The hair on the back of her neck grew stiff. Her skin tingled.

“Keep your eyes forward,” she whispered to Fortunatus.

He was pale. His hand touched hers, and a spark bit them where skin brushed. He winced. She heard a sound like a resigned murmur, the whisper of doubt, people falling, dropping as they shielded their eyes.

So also do the dead fall, when struck in the heart.

She kept her gaze fixed on the young envoy. If she called death, then she must face what she wrought.

Behind, from the company, she heard a shout as bright as ecstasy, cut short. A shriek answered that interrupted cry, a sob—then it, too, died abruptly. A cart’s wheels ground along the road as it rolled closer.

In a moment, the Eika would begin to fall.

The envoy’s eyes widened, and his expression underwent a remarkable change. He had seen something on the road, behind Rosvita. He cocked his head sideways, as if this shift in angle might answer a question.

In the dead silence, the standard-bearer laughed, a strange, and strangely frightening because very human, sound.

He spoke, in perfect Wendish.

“My shamans sensed a locus of magic in your train, so I came myself to see what it might be. It is not what I expected.”

She heard the feather brush of footsteps beneath the sound made by the passage of the cart. Fortunatus gulped audibly. He was sweating and trembling—she could smell his fear—but he kept his gaze focused forward.

Not one Eika or man allied with the Eika had fallen.

The cart scraped to a halt behind them.

Rosvita had heard Sorgatani’s voice before—Hanna had taught the shaman Wendish—but she had heard it only through the veil of shutters. To hear it in the open air made it seem entirely different, more ominous because it sounded all the more pure and innocent, although such a creature could never be innocent.