That brought silence. No one was foolish—or brave—enough to speak into such silence.
Until Count Lavastine stepped forward, unruffled although he immediately became the center of attention. “I see that this Eagle has caused a great deal of disturbance on your progress, Your Majesty. But she served me well at Gent. If you wish to be rid of her, I will take her into my retinue.”
“Would you, indeed?” The king quirked an eyebrow, curious, not entirely pleased. “So many show such an interest in a simple Eagle,” he mused. His tone made her nervous, and as if her fear attracted him, he looked right at her, the gaze of lightning, blazing, bright, and overwhelming. “Have you anything to say to this, Eagle?”
She blurted it out without thinking. “Where is Sanglant?”
“Sanglant is not here, because I have ordered it so.” There was nothing more to be said, no petition, no recourse. She bent her head in submission. What else could she do? “Wolfhere leaves today to ride south to Aosta. You have served me well, Liathano.”
To hear her name pronounced so firmly in his resonant baritone made her shiver; Da would have said: “Beware the notice of those who can seal your death warrant; if they don’t know you exist, then they’ll likely ignore you.” But the king knew she existed. He knew her name, and names are power. She waited, toying with Alain’s ring, praying that it might miraculously protect her. What else could she do?
“You have served me well,” he repeated, “so I offer you a choice. Remain an Eagle and continue to serve me faithfully, as you have done up to now. If you so choose, you will leave with your comrade Wolfhere this morning. Renounce your oaths as an Eagle, if you will, and I will return you to Father Hugh, as he has asked. This is the king’s will. Let none contest my judgment.”
He spoke the words harshly, and the instant he uttered them she could have sworn the words were meant for his absent son. A kick of rebellion started alive in her gut. What had the king threatened Sanglant with to make him stay away?
But as the silence spread, waiting on her choice, she heard Hugh’s ragged breathing; she heard murmurs and the distant sound of dogs yipping. A horse neighed. A drover shouted in the lower enclosure, so faint that even the scuff of her knee on the dirt made a louder sound.
“I will ride with Wolfhere, Your Majesty.” Each word stabbed like a knife in the heart.
Hugh stirred. She knew he was spitting furious, but nothing of his rage showed on his fine, handsome face. Ai, Lady! She was free of him at last. But all she felt was a cold emptiness in her chest.
“Take what you will in recompense from my treasury, Father Hugh,” continued Henry. “You have served my daughter and my kingdom well, and I am pleased with your counsel.”
“Your Majesty.” Hugh rose gracefully and, as he stepped back, he bowed in submission to the king’s decree. “‘In his days righteousness shall flourish, and prosperity abound until the moon is no more.’”
“You may go,” said the king to the two Eagles in the tone of one who has been tried beyond his patience.
“Come, Liath,” murmured Wolfhere. “We have outstayed our welcome.” But he did not look unhappy.
She was nothing, an empty vessel drained dry, all her hopes gone for nothing, but Da hadn’t raised a fool. She insisted they stop at the count’s stables, and here she took possession of her fine horse, her saddle and bridle, rope and saddlebags, a quiver’s worth of arrows, and the beautifully worked leather belt by the renowned Master Hosel, whoever he was. Wolfhere was astounded by this largesse, but he raised no objections. He was too eager to leave.
She cried soundlessly when they rode down through the ramparts of Werlida and set their horses’ heads to follow the southern road, but she dared not look back.
IV
THE SCENT OF BLOOD
1
THROUGH birch and spruce he runs, aware that another runs behind him: Second Son of the Sixth Litter, the least of his enemies because of all the brothers he is the first to stalk him. The others deem him so worthless that they will leave him until the end. But he has planned it out all carefully: the first, and least, of the traps will be good enough to dispose of the least of his opponents.
Along the ground a wealth of ferns shatters under him; sedge and bramble give way as he leaps up a slope. He hears the roar of his pursuer, who is tired of running and wishes simply to bring his quarry to bay and fight to the death. May the strongest win.
Ahead, a boulder painted with lichen shoulders up out of the undergrowth: his marker. Beyond it a thick stand of trees awaits. He can almost feel the breath of Second Son on his back, feel the swipe of a clawed hand stirring the delicate links of his golden girdle as Second Son lunges—and misses.
