“I don’t think it likely any other person born of humankind has survived who can see if I cannot.” Liath said the words without vanity or arrogance. “Eagle’s Sight ran through the world on the river of aether. That element is bound into my being, so I should be more sensitive to its ebb and flow than most of my father’s kinfolk. Yet it also seems likely to me that a sorcerer whose skills are honed to the finest pitch might be able to discern things I cannot. And I know nothing of those ancient ones who spoke to me, or the Ashioi, or the Horse people. They may still possess the sight, while we’ve gone blind. And anyway, I am so young, so ignorant, compared to someone like Li’at’dano—”
“See who comes,” interrupted Hathui, lifting her chin.
The centaurs had proved hardiest of all his soldiers. Like goats, they seemed able to eat almost anything, although he had never seen any of the Horse people eat meat. Capi’ra’s fine coat was discolored by streaks of grime, but she looked perfectly able to trample him on the spot if he gave offense.
He nodded, acknowledging her. She stamped once.
“It is time.” She gestured toward the east. “We turn east and follow the hills on our own path. We come to northern plains of Ungria and from there east to home. Our alliance is finished. Now we leave.”
“I am sorry to see you and your people go,” he said, “but I know I cannot hold you here.”
“That is right.”
He smiled. She did not smile in reply, but neither did she frown. “What of the future?” he asked. “What of our alliance?”
“I report on all we witness to the council, as you would say. The ones who lead us will discuss all that happened. The strong minds will decide. We, the rest, will follow.”
“What of our daughter?” asked Liath.
“I have not forgotten your daughter, Bright One. See who comes with me.” She flicked a hand up.
There were some of the steppe-dwelling Kerayit among her dozen attendants, but to Sanglant’s surprise the shaman, Gyasi, had also come, together with a pair of Quman captains. He hadn’t noticed them at first because, not mounted, they weren’t yet wearing their wings, and judged by facial features alone they did not look so very different from the Kerayit tribesmen.
The shaman and his companions knelt before Sanglant, tapped knuckles to foreheads as they acknowledged Liath’s presence.
“We beg you, master,” said Gyasi, “let us return with the Horse people to our homeland. I will be your messenger. I will seek news of your daughter. I will bring her back to you if she still lives. My clan owes her our service, for as long as she lives.”
Liath looked away, wiping a tear off her cheek. “She lives,” she muttered. “I saw her.” She swung back to face Sanglant. “I should go.”
“No. I grieve for Blessing as well. I fear for her. But it serves no purpose for you to travel east on a journey that could take years. I weep for my daughter. I miss her. But if you go, it will not bring her back more quickly. And if she is dead—”
“She is not dead!”
“She is not dead if our wills make it true, but we don’t know. I trust Gyasi to find her and bring her home. Heribert is with her. That must be enough. There is too much at stake elsewhere, and I. Need. You.”
She lifted a hand. She could not answer in any other way. It was not acquiescence, precisely. She was herself torn and indecisive.
“Take what supplies you need, Gyasi. You take as well my heart, for my daughter is precious to me.”
Gyasi nodded. “She saved my life and that of my nephews, Majesty. This obligation I owe to her. I am not a man unless it is discharged.”
Even so, even knowing he did what was necessary, he found that he, like Liath, could not speak because of sorrow and fear choking the words in his throat. He, too, lifted a hand. The gesture must speak where he would otherwise break down. So much loss; Blessing might be the least of it.
The shaman rose, but paused before he turned away. The centaurs and their attendants were already moving toward the pathless forest while Gyasi hummed a queer little tuneless melody under his breath. A twisting track opened between the trees, not quite seen, not quite felt, but present as mist rising from the hills at dawn. The fall of hooves, the rattle of harness, the soft conversations among men all vanished, bit by bit, as the party moved onto that path and vanished into the woodland. Behind Sanglant, the army made ready to leave, but men stopped in their tasks, hearing that uncanny music, and stared as the forest swallowed the centaurs and their companions. Last of all, Gyasi stepped onto the path, and the trees closed in behind him. At once, the forest appeared as an impenetrable tangle of fallen logs and stands of beech and fir grown among brambles and thickets of sedge and bilberry.
“Their path will be swift, I’d wager,” murmured Hathui.
“Let us leave this behind,” said Liath, more quaver than voice. “I will cry.”
Every man and woman was eager to get moving, to reach home. To discover if home had weathered the storm. Many, like Liutgard and Burchard and what remained of their armies, had been away from Wendar for years, having marched south with Henry in his quest to restore Taillefer’s fallen empire. That was all gone now.
So much else was gone, he thought, brooding as they rode at a steady pace along the road. Often they had to halt while those in the vanguard cleared the road. The storm had torn through this countryside, leaving debris everywhere. No one would lack firewood for burning this winter, had they any game to roast over the flames.
“You are quiet, Your Majesty,” said Hathui having given up her attempts to get Liath to speak.
“What have we left?” he asked her. “What was once an alliance is now, again, only loyal Wendishmen and march-landers.”
“Isn’t that for the best?”