King's Dragon (Crown of Stars #1)

King's Dragon (Crown of Stars #1) Page 157

Rosvita bowed her head and said a silent prayer for the dead man. His name would be added to the prayer lists which were sung in full every Penitire. Yet she could not mourn Brother Fidelis; he had ascended to the Chamber of Light. And she had something of him with her still, the book he had given to her.

“Ten of the men I sent ahead to search for the ruins you spoke of, my lord,” continued the armsmaster, “While I remained behind with the others to give a proper burial to the holy man. I cannot explain … some other force watched over us, for as we dug the grave in the hard ground the lions appeared again on the outcropping above. But they made no move to approach us. Indeed, they appeared to watch over us, that is all, and when the holy man was decently laid to rest, they vanished.

“Then we found the track and soon after dawn we came out into the ruins at the height of the hill. But what a strange sight met our eyes! You said they were ruins, but they were nothing of the kind! There lay before us a circle of standing stones with a huge stone placed at their center.”

“Upright?” demanded Villam, jerking forward as if he had been yanked.

“Upright and perfectly placed, with lintels across. I have seen such ruins in my years, which were surely the work of giants, but never one as perfectly preserved as this.”

“Impossible!” cried Villam. “They were fallen to pieces just three days past.”

The armsmaster bowed his head until his forehead touched his clasped hands. He remained in that position for some time while King Henry drew Villam back and spoke soothingly to him.

“We marveled,” said the armsmaster finally, in a whisper. “The mounds were open. Each one had an entrance framed by stone slabs. We lit our torches and walked inside, somewhat hunched over, it is true, but the walls were so cunningly laid together with flat stone that they were more like the corridors of a stronghold than of a tomb. But each mound was the same. We entered by a passageway which led in a straight line to a round chamber that lay at the center of the mound, buried under dirt. And in that chamber, nothing. No other passages. No sign of graves or of the bones of giants or sacrifices. No sign of treasure. Nothing. Except a single footprint, caught in the dust. And this.”

He extended his right hand and unfolded it, like a petal opening to the sun. In his hand lay a gold ring.

Villam groaned out loud and snatched the ring out of the old man’s hand. He turned it over, and over again, but there was no doubting the look on his face. “His mother’s ring,” he whispered, “which she willed to him on her deathbed.”

After that he wept, and the others wept with him, the armsmaster and young Berthold’s retainers. By not protecting him, they had failed their young lord. Henry, quick to tears, wept as well, as befit a king showing sympathy for the pain felt by others and so—as was a kingly virtue—by himself on their behalf.

Rosvita could find no tears. The tale had overset her. It had astonished her, and yet set her mind racing. Strange forces were at work. How could stones of such size be lifted and returned to their places? From where had come the lions which the men had seen? Why had Brother Fidelis given her the book at just that time, as a man might dispense of his possessions when he knew death was upon him? What had he meant by his reference to the Seven Sleepers?

What had prompted Berthold to go exploring with six young companions?

Rosvita did not believe in coincidence.

At last, Villam mastered his grief, though surely it would haunt him in the months to come. He had, after all, a duty to his king, and a war to fight.

With somber faces and heavy hearts, they rode west to meet Sabella’s army.

XII

BLOODHEART

1

THE streets of Gent were chaos and only the misting slant of rain over rooftops and roadways kept them from boiling with clouds of dust in the pandemonium. Mud and dirt were everywhere; no one dared use precious water to clean. The wells continued to supply water and with the river on both sides were unlikely to run dry, but no one cared to take that chance. It was still possible to wash by the river’s bank on the island’s shore, but the Eika had primitive bows and even stone-tipped arrows could kill.

Liath had seen many places in her life; she had lived in the skopos’ city of Darre, visited villages built on the ruins of the magnificent ancient cities of Sirraqusae and Kartiako, resided near the Kalif’s palace in the fine clean Jinna city of Qurtubah, passed through the seat of the Salian kings, Pairri, taken ship at the emporium called Medemelacha along the coast, and walked among the proud, bustling townsfolk of the cathedral city of Autun. She and Da had passed through villages recovering from famine, avoided towns flying the red banner that warned of plague; she had prayed at churches small and vast, including the great basilica dedicated to St. Thecla the Witnesser in Darre. In eight years she and Da had traveled as much as a thousand people might in an entire lifetime.