But the burning stone is itself a window, shutters opening through which she can look onto another place.
Hanna rides with three ragged Lions at her side across a plain populated more by grass than by trees. The rising sun glints off her brass Eagle’s badge. They are leaving a village, a cluster of sod huts thatched with grass; some of the roofs are scorched. The wooden palisade is also scored with fire and the scars of battle. Fresh graves lie outside the palisade and beyond them stretch empty fields dusted with fresh snow.
Ice rimes Hanna’s eyebrows. In her gloved left hand she holds a broken arrow tipped with an iron point and fletched with iron-gray feathers that resemble those of no bird Liath has seen or heard tell of. The Lions, grim of face, sing as they walk; Liath cannot hear the words, but it is not a happy song. Villagers cluster at the palisade gate to call out farewells. One lad breaks away, bundle thrown across his back, and hurries after them. His mother weeps, but she lets him go. The Lions make room for him among their number. Hanna stares straight ahead, eyes to the west, where their path leads.
Why is Wolfhere not with Hanna? The feather brushes Liath’s palm, and fire snaps and wavers. Now she sees a lofty hall illuminated by the winter sky seen through huge glass windows and by what seem a thousand candles burning in imitation of the stars. A man steps humbly forward in the way of a person brought before a regnant, and as he bows before an unseen figure, Liath recognizes him: It is Wolfhere. On the walls behind him she sees bold frescoes depicting the martyrdoms of the seven disciplas: Thecla, Peter, Matthias, Mark, Johanna, Lucia, and Marian. Is this the audience chamber of the skopos in Darre?
He straightens up, and his eyes lift to take in a dimly-seen person sitting in great state on a gilded chair. His nostrils flare in surprise. He murmurs a name under his breath.
“Liath.”
Liath started back, remembering all at once that there was also danger within the vision made by fire. They were looking for her, and they could see her when she wandered in the flames.
But it was too late.
Their touch came, fingers laid lightly on her shoulders.
Ai. Lady. Not their fingers.
His.
“Liath, my beauty.” His hand closed over her shoulder and with that grip he forced her to rise and turn away from the fire to face him. The wind was not more cold than his expression. “So at last I find you alone.” He smiled.
She jerked away, but he held on to her, not letting go. She caught back a whimper. Ai, Lady, she dared not let him know how scared she was. Clutching the feather behind her back, she stared at the fine brocade on his tunic and willed herself to become as hard as stone.
“You look well, my beauty. And perhaps it is best I have looked but little upon you these past six days since I came to the king’s progress, or I should have been dreadfully tempted.”
She said nothing, but she knew he was still smiling. She felt, though his left hand did not touch her, that hand close and then open, flexing. His right hand burned her shoulder as if ice pressed against her skin.
“Do you have nothing to say to me, Liath?”
She said nothing. She moved not at all. She was stone, heavy, insensible.
“I am not happy that you left me,” he said in his most gentle voice. “Indeed, I am disappointed. But I forgive you. You didn’t know what you were doing. And it matters not. What happened that day means nothing to us. You are still my precious slave.”
“No!” She wrenched away from him, almost falling into the fire as her heel scattered coals and burning brands. Heedless, she stooped to grab the end of a burning stick and held it out like a sword. “I am free of you. Wolfhere set me free!”
He laughed, delighted. “This is the Liath I remember and the one that the court will see beside me, in the fullness of time, when I can display you as you are meant to be displayed. But no one can see us now.” He touched a finger to his lips to enjoin her to silence. His handsome face looked no less beautiful in the firelight, adorned by shifting light and shadow. “Look you, Liath.” He lifted his left hand, two fingers raised, and murmured a word. The burning stick extinguished as if a sudden gust of wind had blown it out.
Her voice caught in her, and all that came out was a fragile whisper of sound, more breath than word.
“A child’s trick,” he said modestly, “but we must all begin somewhere.” He carefully drew the stick out of her hand and tossed it away. “Wolfhere did not set you free. He stole you from me. I have not yet laid my grievance against Wolfhere before King Henry, who will pass judgment. Be assured I will—although, alas, I must wait until Sapientia has the child and it lives and is healthy. After that blessed event my position at court will be unassailable. But until then, Liath, do not think you have escaped me. We will ride together and speak together, sing together and feast together, and you shall be near me every hour of every day.”
