“Like the arrow Liath shot into the heavens,” said Sanglant in a soft voice. He seemed to be speaking to himself, mulling over a memory no one else shared. “Shot into the sky, but it fell back to earth. Any fool would have known it would do that.”
“What mean you by this tale?” demanded Henry. “What do you intend by standing before me now, Alia?”
Alia indicated her own face, its bronze complexion and alien lineaments. “Some among my people are still angry, because the memory of our exile lies heavily on us. After we have returned to Earth, they mean to fight humankind. But some among us seek peace. That is why I came.” She stepped forward to rest a hand on Sanglant’s elbow. “This child is my peace offering, Henri.”
Henry laughed. “How can I believe these wild prophecies? Any madwoman can rave in like manner, speaking of the end times. If such a story were true, then why do none of my studious clerics know of it? Sister Rosvita?”
His outflung hand had the force of a spear, pinning her under his regard. “I do not know, Your Majesty,” she said haltingly. “I have seen strange things and heard strange tales. I cannot be sure.”
Theophanu spoke up at last. “Do you mean to say, Sister Rosvita, that you believe this wild story of cataclysms? That you think the legendary Aoi were sent into a sorcerous exile?”
“I recall paintings on the wall at St. Ekatarina’s Convent. Do you not remember them, Your Highness?”
“I saw no wall paintings at St. Ekatarina’s save for the one in the chapel where we worshiped,” replied Theophanu with cool disdain. “It depicted the good saint herself, crowned in glory.”
“I believe the story,” said Sanglant, “and there are others who believe it as well. Biscop Tallia, the daughter of Emperor Taillefer, spent her life preparing for what she knew would come.”
“She was censored by the church at the Council of Narvone,” pointed out Theophanu.
“Don’t be stubborn, Theo,” retorted Sanglant. “When have I ever lied to you?” The barb caught her, but she recovered quickly, smoothing her face into a passionless mask as Sanglant went on. “Biscop Tallia instructed the woman who raised Taillefer’s granddaughter and trained her as a mathematici. Taillefer’s granddaughter gave birth to Liath. She already works to drive away the Lost Ones again, and to destroy them.”
Henry spread his hands wide. “How can it be that Taillefer’s granddaughter has not made herself known to the great princes of these realms? How can she live in such obscurity that we have never heard any least rumor of her existence?”
“She is a mathematici,” Sanglant observed. “The church condemned such sorcery at the Council of Narvone. Why should she reveal herself if it would only bring her condemnation?” He nodded at Theophanu.
“Where is this woman now?” continued Henry relentlessly. “Where is your wife, Sanglant?”
“Ai, God!” swore Sanglant. “To tell the whole—!”
“How can I believe such a story if I do not hear the whole?” asked Henry reasonably. “Wine!” He beckoned, and a steward brought twin chairs, one for Henry and one for Adelheid. “I will listen patiently for as long as it takes you to tell your tale, Son. That is all I can promise.”
2
THERE was to be no more feasting that night, although servants brought delicacies from the kitchen and folk ate as Prince Sanglant told his story haltingly, backtracking at times to cover a point he had missed. He was more disturbed than angry, impatient in the way of a man who is accustomed to his commands being obeyed instantly. A wind had got into the chamber, eddying around the lamps so that they rocked. Shadows juddered on the walls and over the tapestries like boats bobbing on water.
The silence and the jittery shadows made Sanglant’s tale spin away into fable. A woman calling herself Anne had approached Liath at Werlida, claiming to be her mother. He and Liath had left with Anne. They had traveled by diverse means and in the company of servants who had no physical substance, no earthly body, to a place called Verna, hidden away in the heart of the Alfar Mountains. There, Liath had studied the arts of the mathematici.
“Condemned sorcery,” said Henry, his only comment so far.
“It is her birthright,” retorted Sanglant. “You cannot imagine her power—” He broke off, seeing their faces. Too late, he remembered, but Henry had not forgotten. Henry still had not forgiven Liath for stealing his son.
“The Council at Autun, presided over by my sister Constance, excommunicated one Liathano, formerly an Eagle in my service, and outlawed her for the practice of sorcery,” said Henry in his quietest and therefore most dangerous voice. “For all I know, she has bewitched you and sent you back to me with this tale of Taillefer’s lost granddaughter to tempt me into giving her daughter a privilege and honor the child does not deserve.” He did not look at the sleeping Blessing as he said this.