“Brother Zacharias ended up with Hugh. So I must wonder, where did Wolfhere end up? Will we ever know?”
“A mystery,” he agreed, but he was getting restless again. His legs had a way of getting twitchy when he needed to move. “Do you mean to stay down here all night?”
“The griffins have left.”
“What?”
“So I believe. They made their farewells, and flew east.”
“Why would they desert me now?” he demanded, thinking of Mother Scholastica’s words.
“Spring is come. They’ll want to rebuild their nest and mate.”
“So do all creatures! This one not least among them!”
She laughed but, infuriatingly, did not move forward to where he could see her. He thought he caught the fine scent of her now. He smelled the bouquets and wreaths that had surrounded her before: a tincture of violet, the earthy aroma of bracken, the comfort of woodruff and heal-all. She liked to wash her hair in water scented with lavender, to make it shine, and she had always a clean, dry smell about her that reminded him of the way stones smelled on a hot summer’s afternoon when the sun’s light has glared down on them all day. It was a good scent, an arousing scent.
“Go oh, Sanglant,” she said, as if she could feel his desire through the air, which perhaps she could. “I’m trying to find the tomb of St. Kristine of the Knives. I want to place all the offerings there, in thanks.”
“That was a miracle. She rose in a time of great need. You won’t find it tonight.”
“Maybe not. But I have to look.”
He knew enough of her now to know when she could not be swayed, and he respected her well enough to let it be as she wished. Even if it irritated him a little. Even if it made him think.
“God be with you on your search,” he said, and turned away to climb up the steps.
Outside, his escort waited. He caught them yawning.
“Your Majesty!”
“I have a wish to see the river gate.” He did not offer to let them return to their beds. He knew they would not go back to the palace without him.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Fulk, who seemed amused. Hathui hid another yawn behind a hand. The soldiers—tonight it was Sibold, Surly, Lewenhardt, and one of the new men, Maurits—set out with lanterns raised to illuminate their road.
Here in the square he had mounted for that last ride with his Dragons. Now he walked, like a penitent, along the path he and his soldiers had taken that day. Then, hooves had rapped. Tonight, footsteps tapped. The main avenue that led to the gate was still intact, paved entirely with stone. Then, the city had breathed with fear. Tonight, only the wind stirred. All slept, sated with feasting or exhausted by standing in the streets for hours waiting to see the king and his fine procession and the grand ladies and lords and their entourages, so many visiting Gent that it must seem like a plague of nobles to the humble folk who must open their larders to feed them all.
Would the crops grow this season if there was no sun?
Could Liath learn the art of the tempestari in order to aid the kingdom?
If sorcery had created this disaster, then wasn’t it necessary for sorcery to be wielded to correct it? Surely that would be no sin. Surely it were better for the church to lift the prohibition against weather-working than for people to suffer and die. And yet, once begun, where did it end?
The avenue debouched into an open space before the eastern gate. When they had rebuilt the wall walk, they had put in steep wooden stairs in new locations, so it took them a little while, searching, to find their way up.
A lookout was built out over the gate. Two milites, guardsmen from Gent, turned to challenge him, then recoiled in surprise.
“Your Majesty!”
“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty!”
“Never mind it. It’s well you’re alert.” They moved back to let him look over the river and the eastern shore, although he saw only darkness.
“That is the future,” he said softly. “That which we cannot discern.”
Had he listened to Liath, that day when Bloodheart’s army struck, none of this would have happened. It was difficult to know which decisions were God’s will and which merely human choice, a mistake made in this case because he knew too little of her to trust that she might be able to see what others could not: that is, what is truth, and what the lie. In a way, he saw as little now as he had then on that day the Eika had used magic to deceive their human foes into opening the gates to their own destruction.
He wondered, sometimes, if Li’at’dano had known how vast a cataclysm the great weaving would create. If she had known that it would harm humankind as much as the Ashioi. Had she encouraged the mages of ancient days to open the gates to their own destruction? To weave the tides that would overwhelm them?