“Where is that man’s boat laid up?” he asked Yeshu when the tide of petitioners ebbed.
“Which man, my lord?”
“The one from Osna Sound who was brought forward to be questioned.”
“Most of the local merchants beach their boats up by the north wall, my lord. By the mill. They do most of their trading at Weel’s Market.”
“Go find him. bring him to me. I’ve a mind to visit this market and see what goods he brought with him.”
He rose, and his escort gathered behind him as he strode to the door. He hadn’t asked the right questions. He had missed an important clue. Had this man known Alain? Hadn’t he said his name was Henri? For a long time Stronghand had assumed that Alain was the king’s son, for the king of the Wendish was called Henry, but Alain could not be both a king’s son and a count’s heir, could he?
He had let himself be distracted. He had failed to follow the scent when it was right before his nose.
Where had those damned hounds gone?
At the door, a large party of Rikin brothers hailed him cheerfully. A short, plump woman stood authoritatively in their midst, one hand slack at her side and the other cupped at her waist. It was clear these fierce Eika warriors followed her lead, although they towered over her and might have crushed her with a single blow of an ax.
“My lord prince! I bring a message of utmost importance. I pray you, let me speak.”
The sun dazzled him. He turned aside to stand under the eaves. “Deacon Ursuline!” The world tilted; a cloud covered the sun
as the waters stream around him, but he has to walk against the current because his hands are bound and they are dragging him through the flowing river of blood that burns so brightly that the heat forces tears from his eyes.
The blood is everywhere, drowning the land. Its rushing roar obliterates every noise. No matter how loudly he cries out, how he shouts or sings, he cannot hear himself. He cannot hear anyone, only the river’s furious flood and the rumbling tremor that afflicts the earth beneath him where pebbles slip under the soles of his feet and he slides and slips, dancing to keep upright.
Buildings rise around him and through an open doorway he sees into the interior of a dim chapel. A lord lies there with a steadfast hound curled asleep at, his head and terror at his feet. He fights free of his captors and darts into the church, flinging himself weeping against the lord, but no human flesh embraces him. He is all stone.
Everything is stone or fire.
“Get him out of there! He profanes the holy chapel.”
“Madman,” they cry.
They drag him outside and pour water over him.
Ai, God. It burns.
Coarse brushes scour him until his skin bleeds. Everything is bleeding. The world is bleeding.
There is a man sitting in a chair with a child beside him, a girl, sweet-faced and quite young, but the blood had got into her bones and she turns red. She is burning.
He struggles to reach her, to save her, but they pin him down and beat him.
“It is him,” says the man. “So am I vindicated. Let all the folk who have whispered under their breath see what he has become. He lied about his birth. He tried to cheat my cousin. He has now tried to assault my daughter, who is the rightful count. Put him in a cage. Restrain him, so that he can’t hurt anyone. Let an escort be assembled. I will make the folk who scorn to bend their knee to my daughter see what he truly is.”
“My lord?”
He fell, caught himself, dizzy, and his claws extruded as he slammed a fist into the log wall, thrusting deep. He stuck there a moment, and only after he shook his head did he wrench his claws out of the wood.
“My lord prince?” she asked again.
“The light blinded me,” he said. “I walked too quickly from inside the hall into the open air.”
His head rang with the sound of that roaring, the unceasing stream. I know where he is! It was difficult not to shout aloud with joy and triumph.
“Are you sure you are well, my lord?”
He attacked with questions, to give himself time to recover. The scent of blood had been so strong. The hallucination had almost subsumed him.
“What brings you to Medemelacha, Deacon Ursuline?” he asked. “I am surprised to see you.”
“No less surprised than I am to be here, my lord. I was sent at the command of OldMother.”
This was staggering news, but he knew better than to let his amazement show by any gesture or expression. “What message do you bring, Deacon?”
Yet his heart raced, and he could scarcely quiet his trembling limbs. Alain was at Lavas Holding. Now he could sail to rescue him, and do it quickly before worse harm was done to him. What had sent him mad? Why was he being punished in this way? Or was it punishment at all? There were other plagues abroad; they spread among humankind as maggots in rotting flesh. No man, or woman, was immune. Alain had wandered into places where he might well have taken sick.
