“I don’t want to be king. Or heir. Or emperor. Is there some other way to state it so you understand?”
The red tinge to Henry’s cheeks betrayed that one of his famous rages was descending, but Sanglant surveyed the king dispassionately. Rage never frightened him in others, only in himself. Ai, Lady, but the revelation hit hard enough: Henry could do nothing to harm him, nothing worse than what Bloodheart had already done. By making Sanglant his prisoner, Bloodheart had freed him from the chains that bound him to his father’s will.
“You will do as I tell you!”
“No.”
Now, at last, Henry looked surprised—so surprised, indeed, that for an instant he forgot to be furious. For an instant. A moment later the mask of stone crashed down, freezing his face, and the father intent on his son’s rising fortune vanished to be replaced by the visage of the king whose subjects have unexpectedly cried rebellion. “If I disinherit you, you will have nothing, not even the sword you wear. Not even a horse to ride. Not even the clothes on your back.”
“Did I have any of those things before? The only thing a man can truly claim as his own is the inheritance he receives from his mother.”
“She abandoned you.” Henry touched his own chest at the heart. Sanglant knew what lay there, tucked away between tunic and breast: a yellowing scrap of bloodied cloth, the only earthly remains of his mother, who had left him, and Henry, and human lands long ago. “She abandoned you with nothing.”
“Except her curse upon me,” hissed Sanglant.
“She was not meant to live upon this earth,” said Henry, voice ragged with old grief.
They looked at each other, then: the two who had been left behind. Sanglant sank down abruptly to his knees before his father, and Henry came forward to rest a hand—that careless, most affectionate gesture—on his son’s black hair.
“Ai, Lady,” Sanglant whispered, “I’m tired of fighting. I just want to rest.”
Henry said nothing for a while, but his hand stroked Sanglant’s hair gently. Wind made ripples in the water, tiny scalloped waves that shivered in the sunlight and vanished. Henry’s entourage stood out of human earshot, but in the eddy of silence that lapped around the king’s affection and forgiveness, Sanglant could hear them speaking to each other as they watched the scene.
“I still think it unwise.” That was Sister Rosvita.
“Perhaps.” That was Villam. “But I think it wise to strike for Aosta when they are weakest, and there is no question but that the prince can lead such a campaign. What comes of it in the end once Aosta is in our hands and Henry crowned emperor … well, we cannot see into the future, so we must struggle forward blindly. We must not undercut the support the other princes and nobles will give Sanglant while they do not yet know Henry’s full intentions.”
“Did you hear about the adder?” This voice belonged to one of Henry’s stewards who stood somewhat away from Villam and Rosvita; Sanglant recognized the voice but not the name.
“Nay. An adder? Here?” That was a Lion, the red-haired one.
“Ach, yes. Bit one of Count Lavastine’s hounds and then vanished. Stablemaster sent men to beat the bushes all round and smoke out any snake holes, but the local folk say they’ve not seen vipers ’round here for years and years. Still. It weren’t no rat that bit that hound.”
A thrill of alarm stung him. He staggered up to his feet, surprising his father. “What is this talk of an adder and Lavastine’s hounds?”
Henry recovered his composure quickly, mingled affection, grief, and surprise smoothing back into the mask of stone, an expression that gave away nothing of his inner thoughts: Henry at his most cunning. “Indeed.” He related the story, what he knew of it. “It happened at dawn. Men have beaten through the palace grounds. But none have scoured these slopes or this land here along the river.” He sighed expansively. “Nay, what use? The creature has long since escaped into earth or brush.”
“Not if I hunt it.” Sanglant flung back his head and took a draught of air, but he smelled nothing out of the ordinary: sweattinged men, an aftertaste of frankincense from the dawn service, a dead fish, the evanescent perfume of lavender and comfrey growing along the far bank, manure and urine from the distant stables, the dense, faint underlay of women’s holy bleeding, cook fires from the palace and the searing flesh of pork.
“Go, then,” said the king quickly. “Send those Lions back, for they’ve been at their watch all night, and they’ll send others to take their place. Where will you start?”
