Perhaps it was a trick of the breeze. She thought she heard a shout from the last figure to clamber out of the cave’s mouth. “The tunnel is closed! It’s sealed shut as if it never existed!”
“Liath!” Wolfhere was already into the trees. Wagons trundled up the road behind him.
Liath followed Wolfhere onto the old path that led into the forest and away from Gent. They soon left the ragged column of refugees far behind.
XIII
THE SHADOW OF
THE GUIVRE
1
SABELLA’S army pitched camp in the Elmark Valley, at the eastern edge of the lands inherited by her husband. Here, fifty years ago, the kingdom of Varre had given way to the lands ruled by the kings and queens of Wendar. In the highlands beyond the valley lay the outermost villages sworn to the duke of Fesse, whose loyalty to the Wendish royal house was absolute.
News came at dusk that an army commanded by Henry himself had arrived at the town of Kassel, within a day’s march of the border and their position. That evening Biscop Antonia’s clerics moved through camp, passing out amulets—one to each soldier. Alain walked with the clerics, by now accustomed to their presence; he slept, ate, walked, and prayed within sight of either Willibrod or Heribert.
Agius, too, of course. But Agius’ company was rather like the hairshirt the frater wore: Alain supposed that its constant rasping harsh presence was good for the soul and thus its elevation toward a more holy cast of thought, but for himself he preferred not to be always rubbed raw.
No doubt this failing on his part revealed how lacking he was in true holiness. But then, he had only to watch Agius each day to observe a man who wished for nothing except union with God. Alain admired the ferocity of Agius’ devotion. For himself, and despite his circumstances, Alain was amazed and heartened to be seeing something of the world at long last. He supposed, and prayed, that Our Lord and Lady would forgive him for wishing to experience the world before trothing himself entirely to Their service.
“What is this?” Agius asked when Alain and the clerics returned, late, to Biscop Antonia’s tent. Agius preferred to pray under guard rather than roam through camp in the company of Antonia’s clerics, whom he despised. Also, perhaps, he wanted to remain obviously caged, a hostage, rather than let anyone believe in the fiction of his willing complicity to Sabella’s cause. “Is this an amulet?”
Cleric Willibrod stammered something incomprehensible and scratched at his lesions.
Heribert, who never appeared cowed by Agius’ high station, held out the amulet impatiently. “It is for protection. Take it.”
Agius raised a haughty eyebrow. “Magic? Does Biscop Antonia dabble in magic now as well as treason?” Willibrod giggled nervously.
Heribert dropped the amulet into Agius’ hand and turned away. “It is late, brother,” he said to Willibrod. “We must pray and then go to our sleep.”
Biscop Antonia’s camp bed remained empty: She was still in conference with Sabella and the other lords. Outside, a guard yawned. Rage and Sorrow found their favorite corner and turned several times, in the way of dogs chasing their own tails, then settled down. Agius stared at the amulet, fingering it, turning it this way and that.
Alain sat on his haunches beside the frater. “Do you think it is magic?” he whispered.
Agius shrugged. “I know nothing of magic, or nothing more than you might, I suppose.”
Alain wore one of the amulets around his own neck, tied there with a bit of string. He held it out, comparing it to the one Agius had. It was a small circle of wood, innocent enough, for it appeared to be a Circle of Unity, the very ornament any person would wish to wear at his breast. But carved on the back were tiny letters Alain did not recognize, and bound in with the string were a strand of hair, a thin delicate quill that appeared to be from a feather, and a single withered elder leaf.
“There is an old woman in our village who can understand the language of the birds,” said Alain. “Once a man traveled through Osna village claiming he could read our fortunes by reading the map of the heavens on the saint’s day on which we were born. But he charged coin for this prophesying, so Deacon Miria said he was a fraud and drove him out of the village.”
Agius frowned at the letters burned into the back of the wooden circle. “I do not know this script or these words,” he said. “Nor do I intend to ask our brother clerics what the words mean, if they even know.” He looked up, meeting Alain’s gaze. His expression was forbidding. Alain knew at once what he was recalling: the night when Antonia sacrificed Lackling, when the spirits came, drawn by the scent of blood. After that night, Count Lavastine had changed from a decisive, clever man to a puppet dancing to strings controlled by someone else’s hands.
