“I have always spoken Wendish, even as a child,” he began, but he faltered. “You are not speaking of me.” When who was young? He felt as though he teetered on the edge of an abyss whose depths he could not plumb. “How old are you, Holy One?”
She smiled, something of warmth and blessed approval in her expression. “You see keenly, you who are son of two bloods, for I smell both humankind and the blood of my old enemy in you. What are you called?”
“I am Sanglant, son of Henry, king of Wendar and Varre.”
“This ‘Henry’ is your mother? Is king among her people?”
“Henry is my father.”
Her surprise startled him. Although he could not be sure that he could interpret her expressions as though she were a human woman, she seemed taken aback at the word “father,” as though it were ill-mannered or even a little coarse to mention such a word. But she recovered quickly.
“You are bred out of a stallion of the human line, then. Who is your mother?”
“My mother no longer walks on Earth. She is one of the Aoi, the Lost Ones.”
“You have more the look of the Ashioi than of humankind. You are therefore a prince twice over in the manner of your people, for your mother must be a shaman of great power. I have seen her—or the one who must be her, since in all the time of their exile only one among them has negotiated the crossroads where worlds and time meet. She alone has set foot upon the earth they yearn for.”
“You know of their exile?”
Her smile now was less friendly, even bitter. “I helped bring it about, Prince Sanglant. Do you not know the story?”
“I know no story of the Aoi exile that includes mention of your people, Holy One. I would gladly hear your tale.”
“So you may, in time.”
A spike of anger kicked through him; he was not accustomed to being spoken to so dismissively. She seemed unaware of his annoyance, however, and continued talking.
“First I need to understand what has brought you here, in the company of those vermin who call themselves children of the griffin.”
He looked over his shoulder. The Quman had fled, leaving their tents and half their wagons, but none of their horses. The dust of their passage formed a cloud that obscured their flight, or perhaps that was only one of their shamans raising a veil to hide them.
He turned back. “How is it you speak Wendish, Holy One? Have you met one among my people before?”
“I survived the bite of a snake and now carry its magic in my blood.” She tossed her head as might a restless horse. “Such things are not important. If you were come to attack us, surely you would have done so by now, Prince Sanglant. Nor would you have approached us alone, with these two unarmed companions, if you did not wish to speak with us. What do you want? Why have you traveled so far?”
“To meet you,” he said, “for it is known that among the Kerayit tribe, who are your allies, there live powerful sorcerers. I seek powerful sorcerers and the feathers of griffins.”
“You have ridden a long way, seeking that which you are unlikely to obtain. What is your ambition, Prince Sanglant? What manner of man are you, who desires what he cannot have?”
He laughed, because the pain never left him and now had scarred him afresh. “I have already lost what I cared most for. Twice over. What I seek now I do not desire for my own use, but only for duty’s sake—that duty which I was born to because I am the son of the king. I owe my people protection and well-being. Do not believe, I pray you, that because you live so very far from the cities and lands ruled by my people that you are therefore safe from those among them who can work magic.”
“The seven died, and their line died out too quickly. Only the Kerayit remember the ancient knowledge.”
“Do you mean the Seven Sleepers? They live still, and they have uncovered a working of great power which they mean to weave again in order to cast the Lost Ones back into the aether.” Was that impatience in her expression? She stamped her back leg, and he had an odd instinct that, had she been able to, she would have lain her ears back in annoyance and snapped at him as does a mare bored with a stallion who is bothering her. “If you would only let me explain the story to you in full, I pray you—”
“I know the story, as you cannot. I know what is coming, Prince Sanglant, as you cannot.”
“Many will die—”
“Yes. Many will die. They always do. The Ashioi were our enemies once. We banded together with humankind to war against them. But in the end it is your people who crippled us and brought us low. It is your people who threaten us now, the Quman, the Sazdakh, the Jinna, the Arethousans, these Daisanites who bring their words that make us sick. We chose the wrong enemy. Or perhaps our fate was already sealed.”