Here in the bitter cold of the winter cathedral, tears stung at his eyes, but he blinked them back, fighting them. Only men were allowed to weep, but never dogs. Men might weep honorably in grief, in anger, or in joy. He no longer deserved such distinction.
With the tears came the cloud, a gray haze covering his vision, a roaring in his ears as clamorous as a thousand Eika howling, as maddening as a swarm of bees, as seductive as the din of battle to one confined. But that cloud was madness. He must fight the madness.
Slowly, struggling with each breath, he formed an image in his mind like to the images he saw on the windows, painted scenes from the Life of the blessed Daisan to uplift and illuminate the worshipers. He formed no holy image but rather a common one, a scene he had been struggling to build for days now, or weeks, or months; he didn’t know how long it had been, only that it was winter and once, long ago, when he was a free man and captain of the King’s Dragons, it had been spring.
He built in his mind’s eye a manor house such as his Dragons often lodged at as they rode here and there in the kingdom, defending King Henry and his sovereignty. In this season, in winter, fields would be stripped clean of their harvest, some few budding with winter wheat. The vines and orchards would be bare; barrels of apples would line the cellars; cider would be brewed. The extra animals would have already been killed and their meat smoked or salted away against winter’s barrenness and the quiet hunger of spring.
This manor house he built was no lodging place. He constructed it, in his mind, as his own, his refuge—his land, not another’s. He had nothing of his own save his status as the king’s son, his sword and spear, his shield and armor, his clothing and tent and, over the course of years, a number of horses. All else he received because of obligations owed to the king or, now and again, certain gifts from certain women. But he was careful in his affairs as in all else, obedient to his father’s wish that he choose wisely and discreetly and never ever indulge himself where his interest might cause trouble farther down the road.
None of this he had now, of course, not even the gold torque he had once worn around his neck, symbol of his royal lineage. That torque now adorned Bloodheart’s arm, symbol of his victory, and Sanglant wore an iron collar such as all of Bloodheart’s dogs wore.
He must not think of his humiliation. He must think of other things or else he would fall into madness. He walked, in his mind, across fields and forest and pastureland. His lands. Through these lands he would walk, no longer outfitted for war, no longer dressed in a Dragon’s tabard and armor, no longer wearing the Dragon helm that marked him as captain.