He marked their audience. Closest sat the most noble of his companions, Duchess Liutgard, trembling Duke Burchard, Lord Wichman who was, for once, paying attention, and the other lords and a few ladies who had marched south with Henry or with him. Beyond them crowded the clerics of the king’s schola, led by Sister Elsebet, and those church folk who rode in the retinue of one or the other noble. He noted that the man known as Vindicadus had found a place close enough to hear, although he had no noble patron who might speak up for him. Behind this rank stood the captains and stewards who ordered the army and farther back yet waited sergeants and soldiers and servants hoping to catch what they could.
All must hear, so that they would understand.
He had ordered this assembly. The tides of destruction they had experienced had made them wonder and had made them fear. Any explanation was better than none, no matter how strange it might sound even when it was the truth.
“Two thousand seven hundred and four years ago, the Horse people allied with seven sorcerers from seven human tribes against a common enemy, known to them as ‘The Cursed Ones’ or the Ashioi. They wove a spell of power using the music of the spheres. This is the sorcery we call ‘the mathematica.’ This spell they threaded through seven stone circles, which they called looms and we call crowns. This spell ripped the homeland of the Ashioi out of the Earth and cast it into the aether.”
“What is the aether?” someone called.
“That part of the universe that lies within and beyond the upper spheres. It’s one of the five elements. The others are air, water, fire, and earth. Aether is the most rarified and pure. Unlike the others, it is untainted by darkness. Beyond the upper spheres, so the scholars teach, exists only aether, nothing else.” She hesitated and, hearing no further question, continued. “All the Ashioi were flung into the aether with their land, all except those who were not actually in their homeland at the time. These other Ashioi were pulled halfway but not completely out of the world. Their shades haunted the forests and trails of Earth for centuries as elves who shot poison darts at any person unlucky enough to stumble across them.”
“Those are just tales told to scare children,” said a voice from the crowd.
It was Vindicadus, once Hugh’s servant. Sanglant had not expected to hear a challenge so soon.
Liath smiled, but her look was grim. “I have met shades while traveling through the deep forest. They are not tales. Their elfshot killed my horse. And drove off bandits.”
Among the sergeants there came a flurry of movement. A white-haired man pushed forward into the ranks of the captains. “Let me speak!” he cried. “I have served with Prince Sanglant. He himself freed me and my four men from Salavii merchants who had captured us and meant to sell us into the east.”
“What’s your name?” asked Liath.
“This is Gotfrid,” said Sanglant, before the old soldier could answer. “I recall you from Machteburg. What is it you have to say, Sergeant?”
“Just this.” He surveyed the assembly with the hard gaze of a man who has seen enough that he no longer fears the disapproval of others. “I and my men—we survived the attack of Lost Ones. We saw our comrades fall beneath the sting of their darts. If you doubt the lady, then I pray you, answer me how I could have seen them as well. Two of my men are still with me. They will tell as well, if you ask, what they saw.”
o;There,” she said. “There. All done. Where are we going?”
“Home to Wendar.” He took her hand as they walked up toward the army, who stared in astonishment. How could they not? He was their regnant now, and Liath would be their queen.
2
AT night, high in the Alfar Mountains, Liath stood beside a fire and told the story to several hundred listeners, who would in their turn pass the tale back to the rest of the army. Many more crowded up in the darkness, waiting in utter silence, but because she told the tale as a poet declaims into a shuttered hall, not as a captain shouts, her voice did not reach as far as his might have, pitched to pierce the clamor of battle.
Still, he could not tell the tale as she could. He left her to it while he sat in his father’s chair, which, because it was the regnant’s chair, was now his. The small chest containing Henry’s ashes, bones, and heart sat on the ground to his left, pressed up against the legs of the chair. He did not like it to rest too far from him, day or night.
“My knowledge is incomplete,” she began—as she would! “But this is what I know which is certain, as well as what I believe must be true based on the stories and experiences I have myself heard and seen. All this was hidden or forgotten for long years, for generations, a time beyond our imagining. It was forgotten or became legend long before the birth of the blessed Daisan, who brought Light to us all. This tale must come to light now. It should be known to as many people as possible, if we are to make sense of what we must do next.”
He marked their audience. Closest sat the most noble of his companions, Duchess Liutgard, trembling Duke Burchard, Lord Wichman who was, for once, paying attention, and the other lords and a few ladies who had marched south with Henry or with him. Beyond them crowded the clerics of the king’s schola, led by Sister Elsebet, and those church folk who rode in the retinue of one or the other noble. He noted that the man known as Vindicadus had found a place close enough to hear, although he had no noble patron who might speak up for him. Behind this rank stood the captains and stewards who ordered the army and farther back yet waited sergeants and soldiers and servants hoping to catch what they could.
All must hear, so that they would understand.
He had ordered this assembly. The tides of destruction they had experienced had made them wonder and had made them fear. Any explanation was better than none, no matter how strange it might sound even when it was the truth.
“Two thousand seven hundred and four years ago, the Horse people allied with seven sorcerers from seven human tribes against a common enemy, known to them as ‘The Cursed Ones’ or the Ashioi. They wove a spell of power using the music of the spheres. This is the sorcery we call ‘the mathematica.’ This spell they threaded through seven stone circles, which they called looms and we call crowns. This spell ripped the homeland of the Ashioi out of the Earth and cast it into the aether.”
“What is the aether?” someone called.
“That part of the universe that lies within and beyond the upper spheres. It’s one of the five elements. The others are air, water, fire, and earth. Aether is the most rarified and pure. Unlike the others, it is untainted by darkness. Beyond the upper spheres, so the scholars teach, exists only aether, nothing else.” She hesitated and, hearing no further question, continued. “All the Ashioi were flung into the aether with their land, all except those who were not actually in their homeland at the time. These other Ashioi were pulled halfway but not completely out of the world. Their shades haunted the forests and trails of Earth for centuries as elves who shot poison darts at any person unlucky enough to stumble across them.”
“Those are just tales told to scare children,” said a voice from the crowd.
It was Vindicadus, once Hugh’s servant. Sanglant had not expected to hear a challenge so soon.
Liath smiled, but her look was grim. “I have met shades while traveling through the deep forest. They are not tales. Their elfshot killed my horse. And drove off bandits.”
Among the sergeants there came a flurry of movement. A white-haired man pushed forward into the ranks of the captains. “Let me speak!” he cried. “I have served with Prince Sanglant. He himself freed me and my four men from Salavii merchants who had captured us and meant to sell us into the east.”
“What’s your name?” asked Liath.