“Never mind it,” said Lavastine.
Alain’s knee, crushed into the carpet, was beginning to hurt. He attempted to shift—
Like lightning, Lavastine’s gaze jumped to him. “Master Rodlin. This is the boy? What is his name?”
“Alain, my lord.”
Lavastine looked Alain over. Seen so close and without his mail, the count was slighter than he had first appeared. He had a narrow face and hair of a nondescript brown, but his eyes were a keen blue. “Your parents?” he asked. “What village are you come from?”
“Son of Henri, my lord,” Alain choked out. He could scarcely believe that he was talking to a great lord. “I never knew my mother. I’m from Osna village, on the Dragonback—”
“Yes. The monastery there burned down early spring. A royal benefice.” He paused for long enough that Alain wondered if he was pleased or displeased that a monastery which had received its grant of land and rents from King Henry had burned down. “And it’s a port, too, one of the emporia. Do you know aught of that?”
“My father is a merchant, my lord. My aunt is a successful householder in the town and she manages what he brings home and manufactures goods for him to trade, finishing quernstones, mostly, in the workshop.”
“Have you handled hounds before?”
“No, my lord.”
“You went up to the old ruins on Midsummer’s Eve. Did you see anything there?”
A casual question, seemingly. Alain dared not look anywhere but at the count, and yet hardly dared look at the count. He struggled, trying to sort out his thoughts and decide what to say.
“Well?” demanded Lavastine, who clearly had little patience for waiting on others.
Should he admit to his vision? What might they accuse him of? He felt Frater Agius’ gaze on him, searching, probing. Witchcraft? Forbidden sorcery? The taint of devil’s blood? Or ought he to deny the vision altogether and imperil his soul for the lie?
Lavastine stood up. “So you did see something.” He paced to the open window and stared out onto the forest and hills beyond. “Master Rodlin, you will take this young man on as your deputy. He will assist you in caring for the hounds.”
Disappointed, Alain began to bend his knee again, since Rodlin, too, was backing up, readying himself to leave. At least it was a step up from digging out latrines.
The count turned back from the window and for an instant stopped Alain short, measuring him. “You will report as well to Sergeant Fell, who will begin training you as a man-at-arms.”
While Alain gaped, too stunned to respond as he ought, the count strode back to the table and sat down. “Frater Agius, tell Deacon Waldrada I would speak with her before supper.” The frater nodded and, with a piercing glance toward Alain, left the chamber. “Captain.” Lavastine turned his attention away from Alain as thoroughly as if he was no longer in the chamber. “We will set stockades all along the Vennu shore this autumn. I will call out an extra levy for this work. If we set them up in these patterns—”
Rodlin touched Alain on the elbow. “Come.”
Alain started and, turning, walked with Rodlin toward the door. But his eye caught on the two tapestries that hung on either side of the door. One depicted the Lavas badge: two black hounds on a silver field. But the other depicted a scene, and it was this he stared at.
A prince rides with his retinue through a dark forest. A mountain rises in the distance, touched at its height by the smoky gray of the mountain’s breath eking into the twilit sky. A shield hangs from the prince’s saddle: a red rose against a sable background.
Rodlin took him by the arm and tugged him out of the chamber while behind Count Lavastine discussed with his captain and kin and retainers his plans for the autumn and winter building and for the introduction of a new, heavier plough for breaking new fields in forest country.
A red rose on a shield. Of course the vision had been a true one. He had only to be patient.
In the castle yard, waiting while Rodlin spoke with Sergeant Fell, Alain brushed his fingers over his tunic. The younger soldiers lounged at their ease around the yard. Having nothing better to do, they stared at him and whispered among themselves.
Even through the cloth the rose felt warm to his touch, as if she, knowing somehow that he was to train as a soldier, was pleased. He shivered, though the day was warm. He felt blessed, indeed, to be granted his heart’s wish. But he wondered now how safe it was to have come to the notice of such a power, whether she had been a dead saint walking abroad on Earth or the angel of war descended from the realm of the stars to mark out her champion … or her next victim.
