“So it’s true,” Sanglant said at last. “Wolfhere glimpsed the truth with his Eagle’s Sight, but we had no way to confirm what he had seen.” He glanced at Wolfhere, who regarded the other Eagle with a thoughtful frown, as though the news she had brought were nothing more troubling than the screech of a jay.
“We must march on Aosta at once!” cried Sapientia.
Sanglant barely glanced at her, nor did she try to interrupt him when he spoke. “With what magic will we combat those who have imprisoned the king? Nay. This changes nothing, and in truth only makes our course more clear. We must continue east. That is the only way to defeat our enemies.”
“But, Your Highness,” objected the Eagle, “I have been already two years seeking you. How can we know what has befallen King Henry in that time? He is hidden to my Eagle’s Sight. He may be dead. They may do any foul deed to him that they wish!”
“And so may they continue to do,” said Heribert quietly. “I have seen the power of the sorcery they wield. We cannot fight it with spears or swords.”
“But, Your Highness,” pleaded the Eagle, “if you ride east, into unknown country and the lands where the Quman breed, it may be years until you return to Wendar. What will happen to your father meanwhile?” She knelt at the prince’s feet, her presence forcing him to stand still.
“They need Henry alive in order to rule through him,” said Sanglant. “His Wendish armies will desert Adelheid and her advisers if Henry dies. The nobles and their retinues will return to Wendar without the king to lead them.”
“There is the child, Your Highness.” The Eagle’s voice was soft, but Sapientia all at once burst into noisy exclamations.
“Abandoned! Set aside! And for a toddling brat!”
Wichman snorted, but fell silent at a glance from the prince.
“It is true that the child can become queen in Henry’s place, but she cannot yet be three years of age.” Sanglant looked toward the embrasure where his unnatural daughter had concealed herself in the shadows of the window’s stone archway. Blessing was not more than three years old, but she appeared so much older that King Geza had suggested to Sanglant that he betroth her to Geza’s favorite child, a brash fifteen-year-old boy whom many whispered had been all but anointed as heir despite having a dozen older brothers.
“Regents have ruled through three-year-old children before, Your Highness,” said Wolfhere. “This girl, Mathilda, would no doubt be easier to control than a mature man of Henry’s stature and experience.”
“Are you suggesting we give up our quest?”
“Nay, I do not, my lord prince, but I implore you to listen carefully to what Hathui has seen and heard. I trained her myself, and King Henry saw her worth and raised her up to stand at his right hand as a trusted adviser.”
Sanglant’s lips twitched, as though he wasn’t sure whether to smile or frown. “Just as you stood beside my grandfather, King Arnulf?”
Wolfhere shrugged, unwilling to be drawn into an argument so old that Anna could only guess at its contours. Intimately involved as she was in the care of Blessing, she often witnessed the interactions between Sanglant and his closest counselors. Despite Wolfhere’s status as a respected elder, she had seen tempers flare and accusations thrown like knives.
Sanglant returned his gaze to the younger Eagle. “I do not question your loyalty to my father, Hathui. You have proved it by riding so far to seek my help.”
“What of the king?” she demanded.
“To fight the rebellious lords of Aosta, to fight the Jinna bandits and the Arethousan usurpers, it seems to me they must have Henry to lead the army. Why kill him if they can control him with sorcery? Why control him with sorcery if they felt powerful enough to kill him and still keep the crown of Wendar on the child’s head? Nay, let us pray that my father lives, and that his queen and her counselors will keep him alive until the child is old enough to stand up at the war council herself.” He glanced again toward the embrasure, but the shadows hid his daughter from view. Only her eyes winked there, two sparks of fire. “We cannot fight the sorcerers unless we have a hope of winning, and we have no hope of winning unless we can protect ourselves against their magic.”
“Griffin feathers,” murmured Zacharias. His face was flushed, and he was perspiring.
“I fear the Kerayit will not care about Wendish troubles, Your Highness,” said Breschius softly. “They may not choose to aid you.”
“So you have said before. I do not neglect your counsel, Brother. But Anne’s plotting threatens the Kerayit as much as any people. No place on earth will be safe.”
