A smile touched his lips, then vanished. “You remind me of someone I once knew,” he murmured, “who was dear to me.” He inclined his head, touched fingers to forehead in a gesture of respect, and met her gaze. “I will be your captain, my lady.” His expression held a spark of laughter; he rubbed the stump of his missing hand and pressed it against his chest, over his heart. “I will gladly serve as you command.”
Sanglant always had a hard time sitting still, but sit he did for the entire afternoon under the shade of a canopy that was all that sheltered him from a hot summer sun. The supplicants waiting for a turn to speak to him had no such shelter, but he had directed Captain Fulk to make sure that each soul there was given a cup of something to drink, although it depleted the army’s stores. The stories had begun to sound the same, and yet every woman and man who knelt before him grieved his heart.
“I pray you, Your Highness. No rain fell all summer and the wheat died on the stalk. We’ve nothing to eat but berries and grass, and nothing to lay in for stores for the winter.”
“God help us, Your Highness. Bandits have raided our village twice. My daughter and son were stolen.”
“It was the plague killed my family, all but me and my cousin, Your Highness. We didn’t dare bury them, it was so bad. We had to abandon our village.”
“I pray you, Your Highness. Help us.”
Although he had nothing to give them, each one went away lightened, as if the touch of his hand alone could ease their troubles. As if the griffins he had tamed made him a saint. His mood was sour and his shoulders itched from the sweaty tunic, but he dared not show discomfort. His trivial cares were nothing compared to the suffering these people had endured.
The field in which his army camped lay in the marchlands, in border country where no person quite knew what land lay under the suzerainty of which lady or lord. Most of the folk here believed they lived in Eastfall, but few were certain; their concerns were more immediate and so pressing that they braved a camp inhabited by two gleaming griffins, one staked and hooded but the other roaming free.
“There’s two noble families at feud, Your Highness. They’ve begun stealing our sheep although we’re just farming folk. Their quarrels mean nothing to us. Can you stop them?”
“My lord prince, our monastery was burned by the Quman and half the monks killed, those who hadn’t time to hide. All our precious vessels and vestments were stolen by the barbarians. We lost our entire crop, for there wasn’t anyone to harvest it.”
The petitioner, Brother Anselm, clearly chewed his nails, and looked as if he wished he could do so now as he glanced toward that section of camp where war bands of eight Quman tribes had set up their tents. Their wings fluttered in a rising wind blowing up from the southeast; their banners snapped. Gyasi stood directly behind Sanglant with arms crossed, his blank expression more terrifying than any glower.
“Be at ease, Brother,” said Sanglant. “These Quman serve me, not their former master. Go on.”
The monk bobbed his head too quickly and stammered as he continued. “W-we live as well as we can in the ruins, but this summer two score foundling boys were left at the gatehouse. One was just an infant. No doubt their families can’t feed them. The older ones are good and eager workers, but we need seed to plant winter wheat, and for next spring’s planting as well, and stores to tide us over this coming winter.”
It was getting near dusk, with dark clouds piling up on that wind, and he had spoken to no more than half the folk who waited here, some of whom had walked for days upon hearing that his army was marching through this region. Twenty score or more of them camped nearby, perhaps most of the population of the surrounding region. A few seemed eager to join his troop or to follow along behind the rear guard. Many seemed simply to desire assurance that someone, anyone, meant to protect them from whatever disaster would strike next. He could promise them so little, yet that he listened at all, that he had set foot in this land, seemed enough for most of them.
It burned at his heart. Henry should never have abandoned Wendar to chase after dreams of empire. Henry was needed here. The time to chase an empire was when your own house was strong, not when it was tottering.
“My lord prince!” Hathui strode up, her cloak flapping as the wind gusted. She was damp but in good spirits, with a grin that seemed likely to split her face. “I bring news from Walburg. And from the fire.”
Walburg meant Villam, but the fire meant that Hathui had at long last spoken to Liath through flame. He beckoned impatiently to one of his stewards. “Bring the Eagle something to drink!”
