Child of Flame

“You must consider it, Conrad,” said Theophanu. “All the more reason to make short work of this. The girl in exchange for their departure.”

He rose threateningly, dark cheeks changing color. “Marry him yourself, Theophanu. You’ve wanted a husband for a long time now.”

“When my father returns—”

“If your father returns.”

She went on as if he had not spoken. “When my father returns, I’ll do my duty at his command. It’s long past time for you to do yours and give your daughter up where she’s needed. Times are desperate.”

“And will get more desperate still without my support.” The angrier he got the louder he spoke; they had given up murmuring as they argued. “Why should I aid you, Theophanu? Why should I aid Wendar at all, now that your father seems determined to desert us in favor of chasing down imperial feasts into Aosta? He’s stripped Wendar of its army, and cleaned out my warehouses and levies in Wayland, so what will you use to fight the invaders—”

“For God’s sake, my lord and lady,” Hanna cried, “he can understand every word you say!”

She had never known anyone to move that fast.

He hit her so hard across the face that she actually blacked out. Of the gap between the pain of the blow and the ground smashing into her shoulder, she remembered nothing. Acid burned in her throat. Lights danced in her vision. She couldn’t feel her legs. Distantly, she heard Boso’s wretched coughs as he heaved up again, and again.

“I would not try that, Duke Conrad,” said Bulkezu pleasantly. “I’m protected from harm by a cloak of my brother’s weaving. But I won’t hesitate to signal if there’s any trouble. I can have Prince Ekkehard’s head delivered to you,” he snapped his fingers, “like that, if you wish it. Perhaps you’ve noticed my companion on the march, who grants me her strength. Don’t you recognize Judith of Austra?”

Hanna still couldn’t make any of her limbs work, but her hearing had sharpened.

“Oh, my God,” said Conrad. “For God’s sake, Milo,” he said in a low voice, “take my daughter back to the fort. At once.” After a stifled protest, footsteps moved hastily away.

“I would grieve at my brother’s death,” said Theophanu smoothly, as if nothing untoward had happened, as if she and Conrad hadn’t betrayed their secrets, as if Bulkezu hadn’t walked them through the oldest trick in the ancient tales. As if Wendish quarreling weren’t the greatest weakness of all, just as Bulkezu had said. “As I mourn for Margrave Judith. But alas, Prince Bulkezu, just so we understand each other, he is only King Henry’s third child.”

“His fourth, surely, or did one of the elder two die?”

Sensation returned to her fingers. She got her bound hands under her and pushed herself up. Her head spun, and she almost threw up as she got to her knees. Conrad and Theophanu became four, and then eight, and slowly receded back into two.

“I believe we have told you more than enough,” said Theophanu, “without receiving anything in return. Give me the Eagle. She’s of no possible use to you.”

“How can you know what is of use to me?” He called an order in his own language. Her right eye was already swelling shut, and the whole right side of her face throbbed agonizingly. Dust kicked into her face as she coughed out spittle colored by blood. Hands grabbed her and jerked her roughly to her feet. The fast movement was too much. She threw up, but the man holding her had no mercy. He simply dragged her away as she vomited. The world darkened as she fought unconsciousness.

Was that Theophanu, asking in that passionless voice to have the Eagle returned? All she could distinguish as the light hazed over and she gasped for air was Bulkezu’s hated voice answering.

“Five thousand pounds of silver and one thousand of gold, and I’ll ride past Barenberg with my army and leave it and the lands around it untouched.”

She passed out.

She woke at the touch of hands pressing a poultice against her throbbing cheek. The cool mash reeked of mustard, and it stung. She opened one eye. Struggled a moment, panicking, until she realized the other eye was swollen shut, not gouged out.

Cherbu sat next to her, humming under his breath. He held a cup to her lips. Warm liquid steamed up her nose. The smell soothed her headache. Sipping, she got a bit of the broth down without feeling queasy, was even able to lever herself up and swallow the rest. The light in the small tent had splintered into dozens of colors. It took her a moment to realize that she was lying inside the shaman’s patchwork tent, on a sheepskin. The ground lurched violently under her, and the patchwork ceiling swayed as they began to move.