Given no choice, Tallia left, but she cast one look— pleading or grateful, Alain could not tell—back at Alain before she was led away.
“She’s in disgrace now,” said Lavastine, sitting down on the bench beside Alain and absently letting Sorrow chew on his hand. “And her mother certainly is.” He rubbed his beard, then fingered the silver Circle that hung at his chest on a gold chain. “Henry might be willing to marry her off, if the right bargain was offered. Any lineage is strengthened by royal blood.” He stared at the Hearth for some moments longer, though he was obviously not viewing the fine reliquary or meditating on its holy contents. Then he shook himself, this stillness as much as he could muster in the course of one day. “Come, lad. It is almost dawn, did you not know?”
Alain had not noticed, but now through the glass he saw the faint glamour of light. He shook his head.
“I had a terrible fright when I woke and you weren’t in the room. I thought I’d dreamed it all, the Eika prince, Sabella, the campaign, and you, my son.” Lavastine stood and beckoned to the servants. “Go on, then! I see no reason to wait. Henry has pardoned us and I for one do not intend to wait in this dark palace and intrude on his grief. Nor remind him of what I have gained that he has lost.” He took hold of Alain, his hand closing over Alain’s wrist as if he meant never to let go of him.
“Come, son,” he said, relishing the sound of the word on his tongue.
“Where are we going?” asked Alain. Beyond, through the glass windows of the chapel, he saw now the enclosed garden, its flowers and hedges rising from the gloom into the light of a new and fine day. Distantly, he heard a woman’s voice intoning the mass for the dead.
Lavastine smiled. “We’re riding home.”
EPILOGUE
AT first he did not realize he was still alive. Caught in the middle of a waking sleep, his mind awake but his limbs as leaden as a corpse’s, he became aware he rested half on cold flagstone and half on another body. His spine was aflame with agonizing pain, but even as it flared through him it began to dull down into a throbbing ache.
He could not quite manage to open his eyes. But he knew he was surrounded by bodies, strewn about him like so much refuse. Some few were still alive. He heard the muffled thunder of their heartbeats, felt their shallow breathing on the air, though he did not touch them. The body he lay on was, certainly, dead, but only recently so. Warmth pooled out from it, turning cold as he fought into full wakefulness.
It was so hard to wake up. And perhaps better not to.
No. Never let it be said that he did not fight until his last breath.
He heard the snuffling of the dogs. He began, then, to be consumed by dread: that the dogs would reach him before he could move and defend himself against them. There were few worse fates than being torn to pieces by dogs, like some dumb passive beast caught outside the stable.
He heard their growls and the way they shoved their muzzles against cloth and skin and metal, smelling for the ones who still lived. He heard the low rumble of voices, farther away, speaking words he did not know but in a guttural language he recognized—that of the Eika savages. Now and again these unseen speakers laughed. Now and again the dogs barked in triumph, and then he would hear a man’s grunt or a scream, cut off, and then he would hear—and now he cursed his keen hearing—the flow of blood and the rending of flesh from bone. Once he recognized, however briefly, the voice of one of his own men.
Still he could not move.
A nose nudged his slack left hand and a hard fang traced up the sleeve of his mail shirt. The dog growled. Its hot breath, rank with fresh blood, touched his cheek.
He struck.
Miraculously, he twitched. His right hand moved. And then, throwing himself on his side, he slammed his mailed glove into the dog’s muzzle. It staggered back, and he shoved himself up. He had gotten to his knees when two more dogs hit him, snarling and bitting, from behind. He threw one of them bodily over his head and jabbed his elbow into the ribs of the other, groped at his belt for his knife but found no weapon.
His left hand had lost its glove. One of the dogs caught it and sank teeth into flesh. He hammered the creature’s jaw down onto the stone floor. Stabs of pain lanced up his left arm, but he pried the beast’s mouth off his hand, heaved up its stunned body, and threw it at the other two.
Now more came and more yet. They closed in, circling. He waited, panting, and licked the blood from his mangled hand.
One jumped in and snapped at his mail shirt. He swung and struck it, and it leaped back, but now behind him another broke in and nipped at his heel. He kicked. It yelped and bolted back.