“Sister!” whispered Amabilia. Fortunatus had hold of her right arm, whether to support her or himself she could not tell. Constantine wept quietly. “Come, Sister, let us withdraw.”
Everyone, eddying, swirled away to leave at last several dozen soldiers, two dead dogs and an injured one, the bride, and the prince amid a spray of blood. Left alone, abandoned even by those who had championed him before.
This was the price of the king’s displeasure.
V
THE GENTLE BREATH OF GOD
1
IN an odd way, the disaster only made her more stubbornly resolute. She stood beside one of the dead dogs, and as its copperish blood leached away into the dirt, she felt a desperate obstinance swell in her heart as if the creature’s heart’s blood, soaking into the earth, made a transference of substance up through her feet to harden her own.
She was not going to let the king take Sanglant away from her.
Sanglant looked to see if anyone remained. It was worse even than she expected: everyone had abandoned them except for a dozen Lions and the soldiers who had escorted them from Ferse.
Now the captain of these men stepped forward. “My lord prince. We will gladly help you with the dogs. Then we must take you before the king, at his order.”
“Bury them,” said Sanglant. “I doubt if they’ll burn.” He got his arms under the injured dog, hoisted it, and lugged it to the chamber set aside for his use. Lions fanned out to give him room to walk. The courtyard had emptied except for servants, who whispered, staring, and fluttered away. Dust spun around the corners of buildings. She smelled pork roasting over fires. A sheep bleated. Distant thunder growled and faded.
“Eagle!” whispered one of the Lions as they halted before the door while Sanglant carried the limp dog over the threshold. She recognized her old comrade, Thiadbold; his scar stood stark white against tanned skin. “I beg your pardon!”
“Call me Liath, I beg you, friend.” She was desperate for friends. That Sanglant’s own loyal dogs had set upon the king …
“Liath,” Thiadbold glanced toward the door, which still yawned open. From within she heard Sanglant grunt as he got the dog down to the floor. “We Lions have not forgotten. If there is aught we can do to aid you, we will, as long as it does not go against our oath to the king.”
Tears stung at his unexpected kindness. “I thank you,” she said stiffly. “Please see that my horse is stabled, if you will.” Then she remembered Ferse and the morning gift. “There is one thing….” She had only finished explaining it when Sanglant called to her.
The Lion nodded gravely. “It is little enough to do for him.”
She went inside.
“Have we no servants available to us?” Sanglant asked her.
“Only the soldiers set on guard.”
He knelt beside the dog, which lay silent at the foot of the bed as at the approach of an expected kindness—or of death. It did not move as he ran his hands along its body to probe its injuries: a smashed paw, a slashed foreleg, a deep wound to the ribs and another to the head that had shorn off one ear. Its shallow panting, the grotesque tongue lolling out, was as quiet as a baby’s breath. She had never been this close to an Eika dog before. She shuddered.
He smiled grimly. “Best that we save this one, since it’s all that remains of my retinue.” He drew from the collar the short chain affixed to the leather pouch, now scarred where gems had been pried off. “It guarded your book most faithfully.”
Despite his disgrace, the soldiers had not deserted Sanglant. Their captain, Fulk, brought him water in a basin together with an old cloth which he tore into strips to bind up the dog’s wounds. She tidied her clothing, unbelted sword and quiver and bow and laid them beside the bed with rest of her gear. She dared not approach the king wearing arms. When Sanglant finished with the dog, and she had taken a draught of wine for her parched throat and reminded him to straighten up his own tunic so he should not appear completely disreputable, the soldiers escorted them to the king’s audience chamber. It was not far, because the king had given Sanglant a chamber in one wing of his own residence.
They found the king seated on a couch with his arm bandaged and his expression severe. Sapientia sat at his right hand, Theophanu at his left. He dismissed all of his attendants except for Helmut Villam, Sister Rosvita, and Hathui. Liath caught a glimpse of Hanna, face drawn tight with fear, before she vanished with the others. A half-dozen stewards remained.
Liath knelt. But her hands were steady. Sanglant hesitated, but then, slowly, he knelt also: supplicant before the king’s displeasure.
