She waited for a long time, so long, in fact, that the smell began not to bother her as much, and the occasional sounds as doors banged open or shut and folk—monks, nuns, and courtfolk alike—went about their business in the long shed began to have a kind of monotonous lulling pattern to them. Suddenly, a hand scraped at the rope handle. She shrank back into the corner as the door opened.
As quickly, a brown-robed figure slipped inside and closed the door behind him. She stood up, and because the space between bench and door was so narrow and because her left foot had gone numb, she staggered. He embraced her, steadying her, and clasped her hard against him. His hood fell back. She stood there, stiff and dumb, and he began muttering her name over and over as if he knew no other word and kissed first her neck and, as he got his bearings, her ear, her cheek and finally her mouth.
“Ivar.” She slid a hand between them. He was taller than she remembered, filled out, broader in the shoulder. His embrace—so unfamiliar and yet utterly familiar—reminded her of long-ago nights in Heart’s Rest when she and he and Hanna would run laughing out of a rainstorm and huddle together in the shelter of the inn stables. But they had so little time. “Ivar!” she said urgently, pulling away.
“Say you will marry me,” he said softly, lips moist against her skin. “Say you will marry me, Liath, and we will escape from here somehow and make our way in the world. Nothing will stop us.” He took in a sharp breath to speak more passionate words yet, then grunted. “Ai, Lord! What a stink!”
She muffled her giggles in the coarse fabric of his robe; he buried his face in her hair. In moments she was crying softly and he was, too. She closed her arms about his torso and hugged him tightly. Kinless, she had no one left her but Ivar and Hanna.
“Ai, Liath,” he whispered. “What will we do? Whatever will we do?”
5
NIGHT came as it always did, whether this day’s night or the next one he did not know. He no longer had any conception of time, only of the stone beneath him, the rain—or lack of it—on the roof, the dogs growling around him, the slaves scurrying about their tasks, bent and frightened, and the Eika on their way in and out of the cathedral, always moving. Sometimes they left him alone through days and nights he could no longer keep track of, for there was still a world outside although he had long since forgotten what it looked like. Most of the dogs went with them, then, although some few always stayed beside him. He was never truly alone. Perhaps it was better that he was never truly alone. Without the dogs, he would have forgotten that he existed.
Sometimes when they left him, he could only stare at nothing, or else at the stippling in the marble stone with its veins running away into nothing, or else at the scars on his arms and legs which were in all stages of healing, some still oozing blood, some pink, some scabbed, some the white of a cleanly healed wound.
Sometimes he was seized with such a restless surge of energy that he paced in the semicircle that was the limit of his chains, or lunged, or ran in place, or sparred with imaginary sword or spear against an imaginary opponent, the old drill he had learned so well that his body knew it by heart though he could not now put words to its movements. Only the chains hindered him. Always the chains hindered him, the iron collar, the heavy manacles chafing his wrists and his ankles.
“Why aren’t you dead yet?” Bloodheart would ask with irritation when he returned, or in the mornings when light flooded in through open doors and the painted windows shone with stories from the Holy Verses: the blessed Daisan and the seven miracles; the Witnessing of St. Thecla; the Vision of the Abyss of St. Matthias; the Revelation of St. Johanna: “Outside are dogs and murderers, fornicators and sorcerers, and all who love deceit; only those whose robes are clean will have the right to enter the gates of the blessed city.”
Dog he was now. Murderer he had once been named by the mother of a young nobleman who had rebelled against the king’s authority and paid for that rebellion with his life and the lives of his followers; no doubt the families of the barbarians who had invaded Wendar’s borders and been killed by his Dragons in fair combat felt the same, but they never came to court to face him or his king. Fornicator—well, he could not regret a single one of the women he had slept with, and he had never heard that they regretted the act either.
He would have used sorcery to escape this torment had he known how. But that gift, said to be the life’s blood of his mother’s kin, he knew nothing of. She had abandoned him, and he had taken up instead the birthright of his father’s people. Trained to fight and to die bravely, he knew nothing else. He had nothing else.
