The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars #3)

“She? This one?”

“You did not hear the story from Lavastine?”

“She was under his command. What story is there to tell?”

“If you cannot believe me, then let Lavastine come before you and tell the tale.”

“Lavastine was ensorcelled before,” began Sapientia. “Why not again—?”

“He and his retinue left this morning,” said Henry, cutting her off, “So his tale must be left untold.”

“Count Lavastine has gone?” Now Sanglant paced to the door, and back, like a dog caught on a chain. Liath hissed his name softly, but he worried at his knuckles until Henry brought him up short by placing an open hand on his chest and stopping him. “I must ride after him—to warn him— If the curse does not follow her—” He faltered, came back to himself, and glanced around the room. “A messenger must be sent. You cannot begin to imagine Bloodheart’s power.”

“It was rumored that he was an enchanter,” said Villam.

Sanglant laughed sourly. “No rumor. I myself witnessed—” He swiped at his face as if brushing away a swarm of gnats that no one else could see. “No use telling it. No use recalling it now, what he did to me.”

That quickly, she saw Henry’s face soften. But it was brief. He touched the bandage again, and his mouth set in a grim line. “There is much to explain.”

Sanglant spun, took Liath by the elbow, and pulled her up. She did not want to fight against that pull, but she also did not want to stand rather than kneel before the king. “Only someone with magic could have killed an enchanter as powerful as Bloodheart.”

“Explain yourself.”

“You know yourself he had powers of illusion, that he could make things appear in the air that had no true existence. Or perhaps you didn’t see that. We saw it.” He grimaced and turned to look at Liath. “She alone—Ai, Lord! Had I only listened to her at Gent, my Dragons would still be alive. But we let them in, we opened the gates, thinking they were our allies.”

“Young Alain spoke of a curse,” said Henry, “but I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”

“He had protected himself against death,” Sanglant went on, not hearing the comment. “He had taken his heart out of his own body so that he could not be killed. He protected himself with some kind of grotesque creature that he kept in a chest. He spoke a curse at the end, but whether he released the creature I can’t know. I didn’t see it again. By all these means did Bloodheart protect himself.” He turned to gesture toward her, and with that gesture everyone looked at her. “No man or woman acting alone could have killed Bloodheart. But she did.”

The silence made Liath nervous. She stared at the couch, finest linen dyed a blood red and embroidered with a magnificent hunting scene in gold-and-silver thread: Henry, standing in front of her, obscured part of it, but she could see lions grappling with deer, and a stag bounding away in front of three riders while partridges flushed from cover.

“That is why a messenger must be sent to Count Lavastine,” finished Sanglant. “If Bloodheart’s vengeance doesn’t stalk Liath, if she is somehow protected against magic by her father’s spells, then it must be stalking Count Lavastine. Bloodheart’s magic was powerful—”

“Bloodheart is dead,” said Henry.

“Yet no harm can come,” said Hathui suddenly, “in sending an Eagle to warn him, even if naught comes of it.”

“It was the hound,” said Sanglant. “The hound that died. It smelled of Bloodheart.”

“What must we tell him?” asked Hathui. “How does one overcome such a curse?”

Sanglant looked helplessly at Liath, but she could only shrug. In truth, like Henry, she didn’t truly understand what he was talking about: Was this a madness brought on by his captivity, the months in chains he had spent at Bloodheart’s feet? Or was he right? Did some terrible curse stalk her or, thwarted by Da’s magic, stalk Lavastine instead?

“Send an Eagle,” said Henry to Hathui, “telling everything you have learned here. Then return.” She nodded and left quickly.

Henry touched his injured arm, winced—and caught Sanglant wincing at the same time, as if in sympathy, or guilt. Villam helped the king seat himself on the couch. Henry looked tired, but thoughtful.

“Others have noticed her,” Henry said, studying Liath.

“Never be noticed.” Da had been right all along: That way lay ruin. But it was too late now. She could have stayed with the Aoi sorcerer, but she had not. She could have ridden on with Wolfhere, but she had not. She could not undo what, had been done.