“She will be well,” he said hoarsely. “She is more powerful than any of us.”
Hathui nodded, although she seemed pale. “Yes, Your Majesty. What is your wish?”
He beckoned to his servants, who came forward bearing his clothing and armor. “We can’t wait here. Liath must follow us, as she’ll know to do. We ride west, to Kassel.”
VII
A CHANGE OF DIRECTION
1
SHE burned.
As she twisted in the flames, she saw the face of Cat Mask hovering above her. First he was a cat, sleek and bold, and then he was a man, proud and handsome, with that beautiful reddish-bronze complexion she adored so much in Sanglant and the broad cheekbones and broad shoulders of a man who is not a hunting cat but only looks like one sometimes, as he did now. He had changed again.
He did not speak, but she heard him or she heard others speaking as she floated in a bed of fire. The words came to her as through a muting veil. The hiss of their voices reminded her of the sound of water ebbing along a sandy shore.
“The poison should have killed her.”
“She has sorcery in her blood. She walked the spheres.”
“Walked the spheres? She was sacrificed? What can you mean?”
“When we lived in exile, some who studied magic walked the spheres. They walked up into the heavens. I don’t understand it, but it happened. Most who tried it died, but Feather Cloak survived. That is how she grew so powerful.”
“This one did such a thing? I don’t believe it. Walking up into the heavens! She was only lucky. Not all of the arrows are poisoned.”
Cat Mask’s voice was the only one she recognized. “All mine were poisoned! Why would a shallow arrow wound plunge her into this delirium? It is sorcery that spares her from the poison.”
“She fell so fast. How could she have had time or opportunity to twist sorcery to save herself?”
“Maybe not sorcery but something deeper saved her. Secha—who was Feather Cloak before—banished this one when she walked in our country. Secha said this one had more than one seeming. More than one aspect.”
“Abomination!”
“She said this one was heir to the shana-ret’zeri.”
“Let her die!” murmured the other voices. “The blood knives can take her, and her blood will feed the gods.”
“We can’t give her to the blood knives,” said a woman’s voice, spiking over the others. “This is the prize he wanted.”
Cat Mask’s scorn was unmistakable. “You care for what that Pale Hair wants?”
“His knowledge is a weapon. It has already aided us. We sealed an alliance. Go to the stones and wait for him. When he comes, tell him what we have.”
Cat Mask snorted in the manner of a proud man who has turned stubborn. “I will not act as his procurer. You do it yourself.”
“Better yet, better yet,” said a new voice. “Let Feather Cloak decide.”
“Yes. Yes. Let Feather Cloak decide.” Their voices caught her as on a breaking wave and drove her under.
2
THEY called him “count” and “my lord,” and he rode at the head of the procession beside Lady Sabella and Duke Conrad and their noble companions, all of whom were eager to take part in the sport of capturing a guivre. The dirty and dangerous work would be done, of course, by the men-at-arms marching behind them, but this hunt had attracted an unusual crowd, several hundred folk at least. Duke Conrad ordered fourscore eager soldiers to remain with the force garrisoning Autun, and they went with frowns and sighs of displeasure but did not disobey.
For several days the cavalcade rumbled northwest—back the way Alain had come—along the main road. Of riders at the front there ambled two dozen noble folk on fine horses and behind them mounted soldiers. The wagons carrying hooks, nets, grapples, and the cage rattled along afterward, followed at the rear by the twoscore men-at-arms who would hunt on foot and three packs of hunting dogs with their handlers. The dogs barked incessantly, but no one minded, being accustomed to a clamor.
The first night they slept in comfort at an estate belonging to a royal monastery, the second at a lord’s outlying manor house. They camped a pair of nights, but on the fifth night they spread their company around a village, and in the morning carried supplies out of the village storehouse although folk wept to see their stores depleted, for Sabella demanded all of the sacks of grain.
“This is our seed corn,” said the man who set himself forward as their spokesman. He twisted his hands, fearful as he knelt before Sabella. He could not look her in the eye. “I pray you, lady. This is what we saved aside from last year, and not even all of it, for we’ve ourselves of necessity nibbled at it. With this weather! It’s almost Quadrii, but the frosts still hit us every night.” He gestured toward puddles rimed with ice. His hands were red from the cold. “We dare not plant.”