In the silent hall, a laugh rang out.
“What will do you?” cried Sabella mockingly. “What will you do, brother? Make one bastard a count, and the other one a king?”
Henry made a sharp and angry sign with his right hand. The guards escorted Sabella out of the hall and back to the tower where she was being held prisoner.
Henry took one step down from the dais and laid his ringed hand on the boy’s head. He met Lavastine’s gaze, and the two men remained locked that way for some moments.
“Many a lord might claim a bastard so as not to lose their lands to an unloved kinsman. How can you prove this?”
“My deacons keep careful records of all the births and deaths at Lavas Holding, but I believe you need no better proof than this,” Lavastine whistled.
The hounds swarmed forward, and even Henry stepped quickly back up onto the dais. The youth started up, eyes wide, and called the hounds to order. Like so many meek retainers, they obeyed him instantly and threw themselves at his feet. When Henry took a step forward, they growled.
The boy snapped his fingers and chased them back to a safe distance away from the king.
“What of you, child?” the king said, looking finally at the youth. “What is your name?”
“I am called Alain, Your Majesty.” He had a clear voice, and he did not falter in his words, nor did he speak coarsely, as a low-born boy would have.
“Is it true?”
He bowed his head modestly. “Count Lavastine has acknowledged me as his son.”
“What do you know of your birth?”
“I was born in Lavas Holding to an unmarried woman who died three days after I was born. I was raised by freeholders in Osna village and promised to the church. But—” he related quickly a story of Eika and a burned monastery. “So I came to Lavas Holding to serve for a year.”
“And saved my life,” interrupted Lavastine, who had been tapping his feet impatiently throughout this recital, “and freed me from the compulsion laid on me by sorcery. I was not the first to suggest the connection, indeed, Your Majesty. Frater Agius, who served at my holding, mentioned the matter to me some months ago, but I was hesitant to believe him.”
Constance lowered her hand from her face.
Henry blinked several more times and raised a hand to his lips. “This is the youth who killed the guivre, then!” he exclaimed. “Many stories were told of what happened that day, but we searched and none could find the man who saved my kingdom. Come, child, kiss my hand.”
Alain glanced back at Lavastine—at his father—and then knelt before the king and was granted the signal honor of being allowed to kiss his hand.
“This cannot go unrewarded,” said Henry. He had gained in spirits since the bitter confrontation with his sister. Indeed, he appeared almost elated.
Rosvita had a sudden feeling that Henry was about to commit an act whose repercussions would haunt him for a long, long time. She stepped forward, raised a rand to gain the king’s attention—but it was too late.
“By my power as king of Wendar and Varre and by the right of law recorded in a capitulary from the time of Emperor Taillefer, I grant you, Lavastine, Count of Lavas, the right to name this youth as the heir of your blood, though he is not born of a legitimate union. He may succeed to your title and to the authority vested in that title over your lands. Let my words become law. Let them be recorded in writing.”
Ai, Lady. Everyone knew what this meant, why Henry’s expression was so triumphant. He had made his choice. Now it remained only to see it through. Sapientia started to her feet so suddenly her chair tipped over; she began to speak, stopped herself, and bolted from the hall instead. Ekkehard gaped. Theophanu raised one expressive eyebrow but made no other sign.
“Henry,” muttered Constance softly enough that no one but Rosvita and the handful of others crowded onto the dais could hear her, “do you know what you are doing?”
“I know what I am doing,” said Henry. “And it is past time I did it. Long past time. He is the only one I can trust to take my place as sovereign king when I take my leave of this Earth and pass up through the spheres to the Chamber of Light.”
Constance drew the Circle at her breast to avert ill omen. “No one,” proclaimed Henry, louder now, “and no argument, can sway me from this course.”
From the doors came a shout.
“Eagles! Make way for Eagles!”
They came in haste, two of them, travel-worn and weary. One was young and startlingly dark, as if a summer’s sun had burned her so brown her skin had stayed that way. She bore a touch of summer’s brightness with her still, so much that the eye lingered on her.
