Child of Flame (Crown of Stars #4)

Child of Flame (Crown of Stars #4) Page 326

“You see them in all the tapestries,” said Ruoda. “I never thought about it before, but that hound the skopos keeps by her is very like the emperor’s famous black hounds.”

“’He and his daughters led their black hounds with leashes around their necks, and in their excitement the hounds snap at any person who comes near them except for their master and his children, for even the dogs in their dumb loyalty bow before bright nobility.’” Heriburg blushed when the other three looked at her. “I beg your pardon. I knew the entire poem by heart before I entered the convent.”

“No.” Rosvita stepped away from the window. “We’re asking the wrong question. We should be asking not how the black hound comes to attend the Holy Mother Anne, granddaughter of Emperor Taillefer. We should be asking how, and when, such hounds came to attend the Counts of Lavas.”

A scratch came on the door and Aurea peered in. “My lady!”

“Ai, God,” swore Fortunatus. “I forgot Sister Gerwita. She was quite out of breath.” He was sweating, if possible, even more than before.

“You have news, Brother,” said Rosvita, not needing an answer. His expression was answer enough.

Aurea opened the door all the way to admit poor timid Gerwita, who was indeed panting so hard that Rosvita herself hurried over to help her to the bed. “Dear God, child, I hope you are not falling ill.”

“Nay, Sister, it was just the stairs and the heat. In truth, my heart aches for the suffering I’ve seen. There is so little we can do to help them.” She wiped a tear, or sweat, from her cheek. The lamplight washed her thin, pale face to ivory. “Alas, Sister, that we come bearing such tidings. Brother Fortunatus told you… didn’t he?”

Nay, he’s had no chance.

“We found her, Sister.” Gerwita sighed heavily, shoulders drooping.

“Gerwita found her,” said Fortunatus sternly, never one to take credit where he had not earned it. “She was the only one not afraid to tour the plague houses and the poor houses and the infirmaries. She only took me there to identify the body.”

“God have mercy,” breathed Rosvita, seeing all too clearly where this would lead. “Go on.”

“Found who?” asked Ruoda.

Gerwita waved a languid hand, unable to speak. Fortunatus went on. “Paloma, the lay sister from St. Ekatarina’s Convent. Dead of the summer fever, so the sisters at St. Asella’s infirmary reported. But she had none of the bruising on the cheeks. Her eyes weren’t sunken in. You know how they look. I think she was murdered, Sister, for when I met her yesterday before Lauds, she was as healthy as I am.”

3

IT was obvious even from the outside that Osterburg’s walls were in poor repair. But a mob of prisoners, whipped forward with the lash, could not breach them, not with so many determined defenders pouring hot oil and a rain of arrows down on their hapless foe. Most of the captives died in agony at the base of the walls while Bulkezu and his army watched in a silence tempered only by the whisper of their wings in a steady autumn breeze. There was nothing Hanna could do to stop the killing, nothing she could do to save them.

Nothing.

By the time rudimentary siege engines were brought forward on the third day of the siege, the defenders had plugged the gaps with piles of rubble and quickly erected palisades. To Hanna’s eyes, it looked as though they had ripped down entire houses for the beams and planks thrown up to fill in the weak spots, but of course from this distance it was hard to tell.

All she could do was pray that Osterburg would not fall too soon. All she could do was pray that what she had seen with her Eagle’s sight two weeks ago had been a true vision, not a false one.

“Eagle.” Prince Ekkehard’s concubine, Agnetha, had been weeping. She wiped at her eyes as she joined Hanna on the slope between the begh’s tent and the prince’s. The guards glanced at her and away, pretending disinterest. “Tell me what I must do, Eagle. They took my uncle away yesterday. I was barely able to save his sons from being sent out as well.” Two dark-haired, ragged boys knelt on the dirt outside Ekkehard’s tent, heads bowed in prayer or in grief. “But they took Uncle away for the attack. I know he must be dead now.” She began to cry again. “I should have gone in his place. Look at how many are dead, and I’m safe and dry and not hungry.”

“There’s nothing you could have done.” But her words sounded hollow. In truth, she felt hollow. “Nothing.”

Even had she demanded that Bulkezu cast her back into the crowd of prisoners, that he let his soldiers lash her forward with the rest, he would not have done so. That one night she had spent in the mob had only been a ruse to catch her out, to see what magic she might be hiding. After that, he had reeled in her leash once again and kept her close by his side, always close. She had never known that hate, like a fever, could burn you out until you were only a husk.