She did what she could, bringing water to the prisoners, tending wounds. Her guards watched without interest and made no move to stop her. They knew that any of these little things she did were useless. But she had to do them in order to live with herself, in order to sleep at night.

She had to listen to their stories, in order to report them to the king. Surely the king would be as horrified as she was, hearing of his loyal subjects driven forward at spear point to take the brunt of the assault, caught between a sure death, if they did not advance, and likely death if they did. One man had spent the night buried among the dying, hearing their screams and moans; even as he spoke, he kept slapping his ears as though he still heard their cries. Another had crawled to safety through a field of blood; his skin was covered in it, cracking and flaking off when he clenched and unclenched his hands. A woman had seen her own son fall with an arrow in his eye, and during the night she had crawled among the dead, searching hopelessly and desperately, until her sobbing brother had dragged her away before she could get cut down by the defenders on the wall or the Quman in the field.

There was no sign of Agnetha’s uncle among the ones who had escaped the carnage.

Hanna noticed first that the attention of her guards slipped away from her as they pointed toward the trees and the encampment’s flags, barely visible above the foliage. The smoke had changed. Three fat balls of smoke puffed up and dissipated. One of the guards whistled sharply, beckoning to her as he touched the handle of his whip. She wasn’t the one who would be struck if she didn’t obey immediately.

They got to Bulkezu’s pavilion just as he rode up, attended by a dozen of his favored captains. His gaze marked Hanna, but that was all, before he called his brother over. The two spoke rapidly, words blending together so that she could pick not even one common word out of the conversation except a name.

Bayan.

Cherbu hemmed and hawed. He frowned and spat. He scratched his crotch and pried a tiny stone out of the sole of his shoe. Bulkezu wanted him to do something that he clearly did not want to do. But in the end he acquiesced, muttering and mumbling as he walked away with his odd, rolling gait. He had stripped down to almost nothing because of the heat, and the tattoos that covered his body seemed to shudder and move where sweat glistened, trailing down his dark skin.

Bulkezu returned his attention to the scouts who rode up at intervals and gave their reports. Hanna was too nervous to understand even a single word. Around her, men began breaking down tents and pavilions. Cherbu made a circuit of the camp, hopping from one leg to the other while he sprinkled dust onto the ground at intervals. His singsong chant interwove with Bulkezu’s laughter every time a new scout rode in.

What was going on? Were they abandoning the siege? Had Prince Bayan tracked them down at last?

Ai, Lord. Maybe Ivar was with him. Maybe Ivar wasn’t really dead.

Prince Ekkehard emerged from his tent with his four faithful companions behind him, but they stopped short, caught cold, when two Quman soldiers rode up and dumped at Bulkezu’s feet the body of a Wendishman dressed in the light armor of a scout and wearing the badge of Princess Sapientia. Ekkehard grabbed his battle banner out of Welf’s hand and tossed it back inside the tent. Standing with his friends, he could no longer be identified as a royal prince of Wendar.

Bulkezu held up a hand for silence. He had taken off his helm. The wind streamed through his beautiful hair, making it writhe like snakes around his shoulders. Below, the Quman army was pulling back from the walls; on the far shore of the river, groups of ten and twenty riders moved toward the eastern bank, gathering into larger cohorts as they returned from their far-flung foraging.

“Arm for battle, Prince Ekkehard,” said Bulkezu. “The time for fighting is soon upon us.” At last, he met Hanna’s gaze. “When I have destroyed their army, and burned their city, then you will lead me to the witch called Liathano.”

4

THAT day, the ninth of Setentre, the feast day of St. Mary the Wise, six of the ten scouts sent far forward of the army did not return. That evening, Prince Bayan called a war council so that all the nobles and commanders could hear the reports of the four who had survived.

But before Prince Sanglant led his personal retinue to the council, Zacharias had the pleasure of watching the prince make his Eagle squirm. “It worked well enough with Hedwig.”

“That is what I am trying to explain, Your Highness.” Wolfhere was actually sweating, although in truth it was an unseasonably warm evening, muggy with the promise of a thunderstorm looming on the horizon. “Princess Theophanu had three Eagles in her entourage, and the only one who has the gift of the Eagle’s sight is no longer with her. I can use my sight to see where the princess is—”