A quiet wind brushed all the clouds away. Under the clear sky cold crept in, chasing away the dregs of summer. The bitter stars reminded him of Liath, for she would have loved a night such as this, so clear and cold that the stars seemed twice as bright and a hundred times more numerous than usual. The three jewels, Diamond, Citrine, and Sapphire, burned overhead as the Queen drove the Guivre down into the western horizon. The River of Souls streamed across the zenith. Did Liath walk there now? Could she see him? But when he spoke her name softly onto the breeze, he heard no answer.
They kept their secrets well.
After a while the waning moon rose to wash the sky with silver light. He heard them before the sentries did: a muffled yip, softly signaling, and the brush of fur against dry leaves, perhaps a tail dragged along a bush. He jumped up to his feet just as Jerna unwound herself from Blessing’s sling and shot away into the air. With sword in hand, he followed the aery daimones’ form, a shimmering streak against the night sky, to the fort’s wall, which stood chest-high. Wracwulf greeted him briefly, alert enough to notice how Sanglant’s gaze ranged over the forest cover. The soldier, too, turned to survey the woodland.
Three wolves emerged from the undergrowth in that silence known only to wild things. The sentry hissed, but Sanglant laid a stilling hand on the soldier’s arm. A fourth wolf ghosted out of the trees a stone’s throw to the left. They came no closer, only watched. Their amber eyes gleamed in moonlight.
Wracwulf raised his spear. A bowstring creaked from farther down the wall, where Sibold stood watch.
“Don’t shoot!” cried Sanglant.
Shouts and the alarm broke out in camp. The wolves vanished into the trees. Sanglant spun and, drawing his sword, sprinted back to camp to find the soldiers risen in agitation, whispering like troubled bees. They had gathered near Blessing’s sling, but the commotion had not troubled her; she slept soundly.
“Your Highness!” Captain Fulk leveled his spear at a dark figure which stood next to the sleeping baby.
“Who’s this?” demanded Sanglant, really angry now, because fear always fueled anger.
The man stepped out of the shadows. His hair had the same silvery tone as the moonlight that bathed him in its soft light. “When I realized it was you, Prince Sanglant, I had to see the child.”
“Wolfhere!”
The old Eagle looked tired, and he walked with a pronounced limp. His cloak and clothing were neat enough, but his boots were scuffed and dirty. An overstuffed pack lay on its side on the ground behind him.
“Your Highness.” He examined the soldiers surrounding him with a smile so thin that Sanglant could not tell whether he were amused or on the point of collapse. “I feel as welcome as if I’d jumped into a bed of thistles.”
Fulk did not lower his spear. The point hovered restlessly near the Eagle’s unprotected belly. “This man is under the regnant’s ban.”
“Is that so?” asked Sanglant amiably.
“Alas, so it is,” Wolfhere admitted cheerfully enough. “I left court without the king’s permission. When my horse went lame, I was unable to commandeer another.”
“Sit down.” Now that any immediate danger to Blessing was past, Sanglant could enjoy the irony of the situation. “I would be pleased to hear your tale. In any case it seems you are now in my custody. It is well for you, I suppose, that I do not currently rest in the king’s favor either.”
“Nay, so you do not. That much gossip, at least, I heard on the road here.” Wolfhere’s mask of sage detachment vanished as he spoke again, a remarkable blend of anxiety and agitation flowering on that usually closed face. “Where is Liath?”
“Captain Fulk,” said Sanglant, “have a fire built over by the well. I would speak with the Eagle alone. Set a double guard over my daughter.”
Most of the soldiers went back to their rest. The prince led Wolfhere over to a freshly built fire, snapping brightly in a niche laid into the stone wall that had once, perhaps, held an idol, or weapons set ready for battle.
Wolfhere sighed sharply as he sat down, grateful for a cup of ale and a hunk of bread. “I’m not accustomed to walking,” he said, to no one in particular. “My feet hurt.”
As Sanglant settled down on a fallen stone, opposite Wolfhere, Heribert hurried up, rubbing his eyes. Wolfhere glanced at him, seeing only the robe, and then looked again, a broad double take that would have been comical had he not leaped up with an oath and tipped over the precious ale.
“How came he here?” he demanded.
