“The griffins have left us,” he said to her in a low voice, as if it were a secret. “We have only fifteen feathers left.”

“Eleven, now.”

“If the galla come upon us again …”

“Are sent against us again, you mean.”

“They must kill to raise them, slaughter men like sheep.” It made him sick to think of it.

“Then for the sake of the ones who will die, let us hope they give up.” Her smile told a different story. She knew their enemies would never give up.

4

FROM Walburg, the king’s progress rode west along a grassy track that dipped south through fertile countryside before swinging back north to Osterburg along the Veser River. At length they crossed the Veserling and rode through woodland along the broad track where three years ago Sanglant’s soldiers had chased down and broken the Quman army. It was a gray day, so cold that the shallow puddles along the road were iced over. That hard skin of ice cracked and shattered where hoof, foot, and wagon wheel struck. Moisture dripped from branches. Some of the trees had budded, but there was little spring-green foliage in the forest.

In a clearing she saw a hillock that looked strangely familiar, although at first she could not place it. Only when she looked closer did she see scattered bones and the shattered remains of rotting Quman wings. Her chest pulled tight; she found herself short of breath.

“Here, in this meadow, we broke the Quman,” he said in a queer voice. “That was a bad day, thinking Blessing was dead.”

He could say nothing more. Nor could she. It hurt too much to think about Blessing, yet she did think. In silence, they passed through the clearing. She stared, but except for the tree at the crown of the hill and the unmistakable shape of that odd little hill, she could not relate this peaceful, isolated clearing with the carnage and chaos of a desperately fought battle, one she had seen only in a vision.

They came out of the forest close by a low, isolated hill which was surrounded by boggy ground, brackish puddles, and rotting reeds and bracken.

“There Bayan died,” said Sanglant, pointing to the hill. Its crest lay bare of vegetation, as though recently burned. He indicated a patch of open ground in the western hills that rose beyond the Veser River. “There the Quman set their camp.”

Liath felt a bite in the air, as at a cold snap of wind, but this was not wind. “A powerful spell was woven here. I can still taste it.”

“Two spells, in truth. The first killed Bayan. The second was his mother’s revenge on the sorcerer who killed both her son and her self.”

“Killed her as well? How?”

“Bayan was her luck. She was a Kerayit shaman.”

“Ah.” She felt the same prickling discomfort along her skin that she might feel before a thunderstorm breaks. She thought of Hanna and Sorgatani, but they were lost, and she had no way to find them.

Horns called from the battlements and were answered. Sanglant’s straggling troops fell into line as they approached the gates of Osterburg. The hymn surfaced deep in the ranks and, like a storm, swept over the entire army.

Open the gates of victory that I may enter,

That I may praise God.

It was a familiar psalm, and by the time they entered the streets of Osterburg much of the populace had taken up the hymn, repeating its verses in ragged, heartfelt voices. So many folk flooded onto the streets to watch the regnant and his noble companions ride that it was difficult to pass. Some were certainly refugees who had fled from outlying areas where they could no longer find food or safety. Five or ten thousand altogether, she supposed, a vast number, yet she could not help but reflect that Osterburg and all the Wendish cities were only towns compared to the great cities of the south along the shores of the Middle Sea and in the lands of the heathen Jinna. Even Darre, now only a humble shadow of its imperial self, dwarfed as important a town as Osterburg. Yet Wendish soldiers had defeated Aosta’s best armies. The new often overruns the old as the old gets worn and tired. That was the way of the world, so her father had taught her.

Newest of all were the Ashioi, the refugees who had at long last come home.

5

AT dawn, the morning after the magnificent feast to celebrate both the feast day of St. Sormas and the investiture of the new duchess of Saony, Sanglant slept, but Liath woke. She had trouble sleeping past the break of day. As soon as she woke, she thought of Blessing, and as soon as she thought of Blessing, she could as easily go back to sleep as fly. Sanglant slept soundly, one arm splayed over his head and the other thrown across his torso. He was out cold. He’d had a lot to drink. She dressed and left the inner chamber of the royal suite. Although she stepped carefully, she woke Hathui, who lay on a pallet athwart the door that let into the inner room.