Child of Flame

Thunder cracked and rolled, bringing a moment’s silence in its wake. It began to rain.

“Where be Adica?” Alain demanded, swinging down the bundle containing her holy garments so that they all could see that he had recovered it for her.

Beor roared like a wounded bear, overcome by fury. The others wailed and cried out. Although they had few words in common, it didn’t take Alain long to understand.

Adica was gone, stolen by the raiders.

VI

A COMPANY
OF THISTLES

1

ON the roads traveling north from the Alfar Mountains, following the trail of the prince, Zacharias found it easy enough to ask innocuous questions when opportunity arose and to make himself inconspicuous when necessary. After an unfortunate detour to escape a pack of hungry wolves, in the course of which he lost one of his two goats and picked up a nagging infection in his left eye, he found himself among a trickle of petitioners and pilgrims walking north to see the king. Some of these humble souls had heard tell of a noble fighter who had single-handedly vanquished a pack of bloodthirsty bandits.

“Truly, he must have been a prince among men,” he said more than once to the folk he met, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice. At last one fellow agreed that he had heard from a steward riding south that indeed Prince Sanglant had returned to the king’s progress.

When he came to the palace complex at Angenheim and found the court in the throes of making ready to leave, he hoped to press forward among the many plaintiffs come to beg alms or healing or justice from the king. He didn’t look that different from the filthy beggars and poor farmers camped out in the fields and woodland outside of the palace fortifications. Most people liked to gossip. Surely no one would take any special notice of a few innocent questions put to the guards.

But after seven years as a slave among the Quman nomads and a year traveling as an outcast through the lands of his own people, Zacharias had forgotten that his ragged clothing, disreputable appearance, and easterner’s accent might cause people to distrust rather than simply dismiss him.

In this way, he found himself hauled up past the impressive fortifications and into the palace grounds themselves. Once they had taken away his goat and searched his battered leather pack for weapons, guards marched him through the handsomely carved doors of one of the noble residences. By prodding him with the butts of their spears, they tried to make him kneel before an elderly lord seated on a bench with a cup of wine in one hand and a robust and handsome young woman next to him.

The old lord handed the cup to her and looked Zacharias over with a frown as he tapped his fingers on a knee. “He refuses to kneel.” He had a touch of the east about his voice, blurred by the hard stops and starts characteristic of the central duchies.

“I mean no offense, my lord,” said Zacharias quickly. “I am a frater and sworn to kneel before none but God.”

“Are you, then?” As the lord sat back, a slender, middle-aged servant circled around to whisper in his ear. When the guardsman had finished, the lord shifted forward. “Do you know who I am?”

“Nay, I do not, my lord, but I can hear by your speech that you’ve spent time in the east.”

The lord laughed, although not as loudly as his young companion, who gestured toward the embroidered banner hung on the wall behind a table laden with gold and silver platters and bowls. The profusion of food made Zacharias’ mouth water—apples, pears, bread, cheese, leeks, and parsley—but the sigil on the banner made his blood run cold and his mouth go dry with fear. It was only then that he noticed that the lord had only one arm; one sleeve had been pinned back so that it wouldn’t get in his way.

“The silver tree is the sign of the house of Villam, my lord,” he said, cursing himself silently. That had been his mistake among the Pechanek tribe: he had let those in power notice him, because in those days he had still believed in the God of the Unities and thought it his duty to bring their worship to the benighted, those who dwelt in the darkness of ignorance. “Can it be that you are Margrave Villam? I crave your pardon, my lord, for truly he was an old man in my youth, so it was said, and I thought the old margrave must be dead by now and the margraviate gone to his heirs.”

“I pray to God you are not dead yet,” said the woman boldly. “I trust you have enough youth in you to play your part on our wedding night.”

Villam had an honest smile. “They say a horse may die if ridden too hard.”

She was, thank God, not a giggler, but she laughed in a way that made Zacharias uncomfortable because it reminded him of what Bulkezu had cut from him. “I hope I have not chosen a mount that will founder easily.”