Child of Flame

If he laughs, she thought, I’ll strangle him.

He merely indicated a neat semicircle of felt-covered pillows set in the center of the pavilion. Prince Ekkehard and his fellows were already seated there, trying to look as comfortable and relaxed as if they dined every day in the tent of their enemy, the man whom Bayan hated above all others in the whole wide world. Even Lord Welf, looking much recovered from his elfshot wound, sat with them, although he was pallid.

“His Mightiness begs that you honor him with your presence, Honored One,” said the interpreter to Hanna with considerably more politeness than he’d shown before. “Now that the Cursed Ones have been driven off, there is time to celebrate the victory, and your fortuitous meeting.”

“One wonders who it was lucky for,” muttered Lord Benedict.

“Those shades would probably have tracked us down and killed us if we hadn’t stumbled upon Prince Bulkezu,” said Ekkehard crossly to his companion. He glanced back at the interpreter. “Is the Eagle to sit with us as though she’s nobly born?”

“If I were you, my sweet prince,” said the interpreter insolently, “I’d keep my mouth shut about her.”

“Does Prince Bulkezu mean to take her as a concubine? I’ve seen prettier, but I suppose her hair is striking.”

“You’re an ignorant young sot, aren’t you? Don’t you know what she is?”

“She’s a damned Eagle, and deserves the respect with which the king has honored her. I recognize the ring on her hand, the mark of my father’s favor. I can’t believe your savage master hasn’t cut that emerald off her finger yet.”

“Or that he hasn’t cut off your head for your insolence,” added Lord Frithuric.

Prince Bulkezu cleared his throat suggestively as he ushered Hanna up to a pillow and, with the manners of a courtier, indicated a wine-colored pillow decorated with clashing eagles. Once she sank down cross-legged, uncomfortable sitting as an equal among Wendish lords, Bulkezu placed himself on the remaining vacant pillow, between Hanna and Ekkehard. He clapped his hands, once, and his soldiers hurried to serve them on perfect wooden trays carved with filigree done to resemble twining vines. The cups were cruder, plain ceramic, but warm to the touch, and she almost laughed out loud when she breathed in the aroma: hot spiced wine.

A pang struck her, clawing at her heart. What had happened to Gotfrid and his fellows? Had they escaped, or did they lie dead in the snow?

But Gotfrid surely wouldn’t begrudge her a moment’s pleasure after everything they’d been through. Gotfrid would probably be the first to say that it was well worth enjoying what you had while you had it, since you didn’t know how quickly it might be taken from you.

As Bayan had said, no war was ever lost if there was still wine to drink.

Bulkezu examined her in the silence as they sipped their wine and nibbled on hard cakes flavored with coriander. Truly, there was a war going on right now in more ways than one, and she didn’t suppose it would be over very quickly. After all, despite their fear of the Kerayit, she was still his prisoner.

A soldier entering carrying an odd-looking two-stringed lute. He settled himself to one side and serenaded them in a grating, nasal voice that droned on and on. After a long while, he finished, and they were permitted to go to sleep. Although she was most graciously offered the use of Bulkezu’s furs, she took herself to the opposite wall of the tent, near the entrance, and wrapped herself tightly in her cloak. She was so exhausted that she fell asleep at once.

She woke to snoring. Without raising her head or otherwise giving herself away, she studied the dark interior. Prince Ekkehard and his comrades lay sleeping nearby, sprawled in ungainly postures on the floor of the pavilion. Each of the young lords had a partner in sleep, a Quman soldier at rest beside them, so that if their prisoner stirred, they would wake, too. Only Hanna wasn’t guarded.

Or maybe she was.

One person wasn’t sleeping. In the center of the pavilion, illuminated by the pool of light afforded by a single burning lamp hung from the center pole, Prince Bulkezu still sat on his goldbraided pillow. He had an easy posture, cross-legged, one elbow braced on a knee while the other fiddled with the stem of an elaborate ceramic pipe. Steam bubbled up from its belly. He took a puff from the pipe, exhaling softly. A veil of smoke hazed the air around him as he watched her. Did he know she’d woken?

The strangely-scented smoke filled her lungs and made her consciousness drift on hazy currents out through the smoke hole, lofting above the camp. There lay the prince’s pavilion, below her, glowing with a faint golden ring of protection, and the other tents, ranged in a circle around it, seemed marked by yet more magical wards. There stood the horses, restless in the cold night, and their stalwart guard. To one side, unseen before, she noticed a corral and, within that fence, the patchwork cloak of the shaman. He cooked meat over a kettle filled with coals, and abruptly glanced up, as if he sensed her. But her awareness already ranged beyond him, to the sentries in their concealed posts, the glittering trip lines laid high and low, and a pair of hawks perched on a branch, waiting for dawn.