“And charged us to be sure that you return safely to the hall,” adds the Alban youth, who is eyeing him with curiosity. “How comes it that you speak the Alban tongue? Not many among your nation do so.”
“It’s in my blood,” says Alain. “What are you called, you two?”
“I’m called Aestan, son of no woman who claimed me,” says the Alban youth. “Once slave to the earl of the middle country, but now a free man and a soldier with the rights according to me thereby, under the charter of the new king, Lord Stronghand.” He cocks a thumb at his companion. “This is my brother, called Tiderunner, although I just call him Eagor, which is what we call the flood tide in my country.”
“Although his is the tongue that floods,” says the Eika with a grin that displays four sparking jewels drilled into his sharp teeth.
Aestan punches him on the arm, and they shadowbox for a moment before recalling where they are and what their mission is.
“Have you lamps?” Alain asks them.
“We do, a pair of them,” said Aestan, and adds, “They’re not lit yet.”
“As if he couldn’t see so himself!” retorts his companion.
“Heh! Having you for a companion, I begin to think all men are blind!”
Alain whistles. The hounds stand with heads high and ears pricked up, smelling and tasting the air. “There may be more wounded men lying out here who can be saved if they’re found quickly.”
They nod obediently.
He marks her in the distance, riding along a flank where men scramble through ruined pickets seeking survivors. The wings of dusk settle over the Lady of Battles until he can no longer see her, but he knows she still stalks the field. Always and ever she will ride. “We are not done yet, you and I,” he says to her, knowing she can hear him at any distance. “I challenge you. I challenge you.”
He turns to the soldiers. “Light a lamp, I pray you,” he says.
Flint snaps. A flame leaps from the wick, and the lamp wakens, spilling light. He leads them out to search the darkening battlefield.
“He is coming,” said Stronghand.
Duchess Liutgard and Duke Conrad had long since marched out to the Varren encampment to recover Liutgard’s daughter, and returned to their separate quarters in this portion of the new palace. The holy mothers had arranged to meet in the morning for a conclave.
Theophanu and Stronghand sat in chairs on either side of an open window, in the middle chamber of the suite reserved for the regnant. Her servants and stewards and his guardsmen and council members waited in attendance together with a half dozen of the messenger eagles.
All night he and she had sat thus, alone, just talking. She had described the forthcoming conclave at length—and with a subtle humor that repeatedly amused him—in terms that suggested it would be nothing more than a wrestling match argued with words rather than grappling. He had told the story of the Alban conquest. Of Aosta, there was rumor to chew over and discount. Of her father, the king, she spoke affectionately and yet with a kind of bitter reserve that betrayed ambivalent feelings. He told her of what he had seen at Gent in the days when his father, that belligerent warlord, still lived. They touched last on the afternoon’s council, when the two of them had come to such an abrupt and instinctive accommodation.
Dawn would come soon.
Flambeaux smoldered in their sconces, trailing smoke and the waxy scent of herbs tucked in to sweeten their burning. A fire burned in twin braziers, because the humans found the night air cold, although the chill made no difference to him.
She wore a shawl draped over her shoulders; her hair was uncovered, twisted back in a single thick braid. She was easy to look on, unusual among humankind for not fidgeting or stretching her mouth into the grimaces called smiling and frowning. Like stone, she had patience and a smooth exterior. She was easy to talk to, and had an exceedingly clever mind, nor did she reveal too much in the manner of a person attempting to ingratiate herself where she feels inferior. He minded the same balance: they must learn enough of each other now to gain a worthy measure of trust, but not too much, lest the arrangement fall through before it is binding.
“If he is not truly the son and heir of Count Lavastine,” she said, “then who is he? Who is his mother? Who his father?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to you, which tribe you are sprung from. You named your birth tribe and cousin tribes, and those who allied with you early, and those who came late or not at all. You remember their names. Kinship always matters. He is bound to the county of Lavas in some manner. I would like to know how. The count of Lavas controls a great deal of territory along the northeastern coast of Arconia and well inland. The one who rules there would be a welcome ally.”