The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars #5)

“My lord prince.” A woman dressed in the fashion of the Quman slaves stepped out of the crowd, dropping to one knee. “Her Most Glorious Highness, Princess Sapientia, commands that you attend her. At once.”

The thought of going back out into the cold was enough to make a strong man weep with frustration, nor did he like the tone that Sapientia, after months on the road in the company of the Pechanek Quman, was taking with him. But this was no time to pick petty fights.

He gestured for Malbert to help him back on with the furs. “Hathui. Breschius.”

Frater and Eagle bundled themselves up, and Hathui grabbed a lantern.

“What about my letters? Aren’t you going to look at my letters!”

“I will tomorrow, little one.”

“I want to go!”

“You may not.”

“You can’t stop me! I’ll go out whether you want me to or not!”

“You will not, Blessing. You are too valuable a hostage. I cannot trust the Pechanek. If they get hold of you, then I will be forced to trade Bulkezu in order to get you back, and then the Quman will have no reason to guide us to the eastern lands where we can hunt griffins.”

“I want to hunt griffins!” she cried, shifting ground. She would never admit she was wrong.

“When you are old enough.”

“I’m old enough now!”

“Your Highness,” said Heribert gently, “you are not even a woman yet. Nor have you trained with arms for more than a few months, and in such limited circumstances because of this Godforsaken winter.”

“You never looked at my letters! You hate me!” Blessing flung herself facedown on the feather bed and sobbed noisily. Her attendants fussed over her, trying to soothe her.

It was a relief to step outside into the cruel slap of winter.

“Is not the young princess old enough to be married, my lord prince?” asked the slave, falling into step beside Sanglant. She had a deadly way of looking sideways at a man, but he wasn’t sure if she meant to be provocative.

“She is not yet a woman.”

“She might still be betrothed and sent into the care of her husband’s family so that she would understand their ways.”

“In what land were you born?”

“In Avitania, my lord prince.”

“Salian, then.”

“That explains it,” muttered Hathui.

Sanglant chuckled, sensing an undercurrent of hostility between the two women, who only ever met in such formal situations. “We have different customs. How came you to serve a Quman master?”

“I was sold to an Arethousan merchant, my lord prince, and taken into the east to the estate of a noble family. There I was captured by a Quman raiding party.” She spoke the words with no sign of anger or grief.

“You learned Wendish from a good teacher.”

She glanced at Hathui. “Brother Zacharias was what he was.”

“A slave like you!” retorted Hathui angrily.

The slave nodded, choosing not to argue. Probably she had long since given up any notions of argument. She was a stolid woman in all ways, except for that amorous gaze, an open window in an otherwise shuttered-up house. She endured the cold without complaint, although she wore less clothing than he himself did: heavy felt trousers and tunic and a skin coat with the fur side turned in and wrapped tightly around her torso, all of which concealed the lush figure he recalled noticing in warmer days. Because she had the patience of a woman who has served a harsh master for many years and expects no release, she said nothing as he took his time making a spiral walk out of his own encampment, which was curled tightly around the two central tents.

At the entrance to the tent placed beside his own, he stopped to speak to the guards.

“How’s the prisoner, Anshelm?”

“Quiet, my lord prince.”

“It’s a change.”

“Truly, it is, my lord prince. Barely a peep out of him since those Quman came. I never thought to see him wetting his leggings like a frightened boy, but I admit it gives me pleasure still to think on it.”

Sergeant Cobbo pushed through the entrance flap. “I heard voices.” He bowed his head. “My lord prince.”

Sanglant glimpsed the figure within, so heavily weighted with chains that it was a miracle the prisoner could sit upright, but sit upright he did. Before the flap cut off his view, Sanglant felt the force of Bulkezu’s gaze like the nip of a cold wind biting his face.

Quiet, but not broken.

“We was just talking of the prisoner, Sergeant,” said Anshelm. “Think he lost his voice when he caught sight of his mum?”