Her eyes widened as recognition flared. She dropped the mug. Ale spilled down her leggings; the mug hit and shattered on the plank floor. Her lips formed his name, but no sound came out. Staggering, she folded forward and fell as though she’d been slugged and, reflexively, as he’d always done when she was only his little sister and had got into trouble yet again, he leaped forward to catch her.
She clutched him hard. “Ai, God.” She was as tall as he was, with a strong grip and a rank smell. “I thought you were dead.”
I am dead. I am not the brother you knew. But he could not speak.
“God’s mercy,” said Wolfhere softly, much surprised. “I knew you had a brother, Hathui, who walked into the east as a frater and was lost. Can this man be the same one?”
She wept, although she’d never been one to weep as a child, scorning those who cried; her beloved older brother had been the only soul ever allowed to see her rare bouts of tears.
“Hush,” he said, remembering those days bitterly. Memories swept over him with such strength that he felt nauseated. Now she would know. Now she would despise him.
“I thought you were dead,” she repeated, voice hollow. Tears still coursed down her face, but her expression had changed, taut and determined, the hawk’s glare focused again on its distant prey. “All things are possible, if you are truly alive after all this time. My God, Zacharias, there is so much for us to speak of, but first I must deliver my news to the prince.”
She nodded to the others and strode out of the stables. He was left behind to follow in her wake, fearing the worst: that she brought ill news, and that he had been called because Prince Sanglant intended to bring in the captive Quman and needed Zacharias to interpret. Yet why not? Let the worst be known at once, so that her repudiation of him would come now, the pain of her rejection suffered immediately. That was better than to be left lingering, malignant with hope.
They pushed into the hall past servants and hangers-on, brushing aside a pack of hopeful dogs waiting for bones. Hathui walked with a pronounced limp, as if she had aggravated the old childhood injury that had left her with a slight hitch in her stride. Was it really almost two years ago when he had glimpsed her that day in Helmut Villam’s presence? Zacharias had kept back in the shadows, and Hathui had not recognized him. Since that day, she’d grown thin and weary and worn, and her sunken cheeks made her hawk’s nose more prominent, bold and sharp. But when they pushed through the crowd and came before the high table where King Geza presided over the feast, she stood proudly in her patched Eagle’s cloak and tattered clothing and spoke in the voice he remembered so well, confident and proud.
“My lord king of Ungria, may all be well in your kingdom. I pray you, forgive my abruptness.”
The hall grew quiet as the feasting nobles settled down to listen. Sapientia sat in the seat of honor to Geza’s right while Sanglant sat between the robust but gray-haired King Geza and Lady Ilona, a ripely handsome and fabulously rich Ungrian widow. Brother Breschius leaned down to whisper into Geza’s ear as Hathui turned her attention to the royal siblings.
“Your Highness, Princess Sapientia, I come from Aosta bearing news. My lord prince, my lady, I have traveled a long and difficult road to reach you. It has taken me almost two years to come so far, and I have escaped death more than once.”
Sanglant rose to his feet, holding a cup of wine. He wore a rich gold tunic embroidered with the sigil of the black dragon and finished with red braid, and his black hair had been trimmed back from his beardless face. No person could look at him and forget that his mother was not born of humankind.
Yet neither could they forget that he was a prince, commander of the army that had defeated the Quman. Even, and especially, Sapientia, dressed in all the finery appropriate to a noblewoman, looked as insignificant as a goldfinch perched next to a mighty dragon.
“You bring ill news,” said Sanglant.
Hathui almost choked on the words. “I bring ill news, Your Highness, may God help us all. King Henry has been bewitched, ensorcelled with the connivance of his own queen and his trusted counselor. He lives as a prisoner in his own body. You are the only one who can save him.”
2
BLESSING had a disconcerting habit of leaning so far out tower windows that it seemed in the next instant she would fall, or fly.
“Look!” She had crawled up into the embrasure of an archer’s loophole and was still—barely—small enough to push into the narrow opening so that she could look down into the forecourt. “My father has left the feasting hall. I don’t like it when he makes me stay here, like I’m in prison. Doesn’t he have enough prisoners to lord it over? Why does he pick on me?”