Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars #7)

Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars #7) Page 232

“There might be a man among these refugees here, who lost his wife and needs to marry.”

She flashed him a look. She had a stark gaze, stripped of illusions. “There is one man I have noticed. He came out of Kien, up in the high country. But he’s lost in his mourning, more a mute beast than a man. I don’t know if I can carry him out.”

“Wounded beasts can be healed by treating them with patience and respect. So may humankind. You are strong.”

“What choice have I? I am all that’s left. I would not have my family’s name die with me, and the good land we farm go to some other, for we’ve not even any cousins left to us. If I lose the land, the children will have to go out as bondsmen or servants.”

He left her and went on, talking to those who were wakeful and smelling out those who were sick. Hamlets and villages and farms all through this region had been laid waste, they told him, crops left unsown, livestock scattered, and many, many folk were dead. It would be a hard winter ahead, but at least they now had the rest of summer to rebuild and some measure of peace to build in. At least they now had some hope to hold onto.

Late in the night, he circled back to the main compound. The haze had thinned. The quarter moon faded in and out behind wisps of high cloud. At zenith, the Queen processed in glory with her Sword, Staff, and jeweled Cup. The Dragon had already set.

Lions stood at guard on the porch, and their captain hailed him.

“Lord Alain. You are out late.”

“Many sleep restlessly tonight,” he remarked. “Now that I think on it, Captain Thiadbold, are there any men among your Lions who are ready to retire from the regnant’s service? There’s at least one young householder with a grand inheritance who is in desperate need of a partner—a husband—to help her hold her land and title.”

“She’s too high for me,” said the captain with a startled laugh.

Alain was startled in his turn. “I pray you, what do you mean?”

“Sister Rosvita has let it be known. The good cleric went inside not long ago, to the mourners.”

“Let what be known?”

“About the rightful heir to Lavas County. Who would have guessed it! The holy abbess cannot live long, and so the granddaughter will take the coronet. It’s a miracle—don’t you think?—for the truth to be known after so long.”

He paused, seeing that his dozen men on guard had shifted closer to listen. “Still, no triumph, coming in the wake of her grief.”

“See there.” Sergeant Ingo pointed at the sky over the dormitory roofs. “There’s the Phoenix, rising.”

Where the haze cleared, the constellation Alain had always known as the Eagle unfurled its great square of wings. No one corrected the other man.

“They’re saying it’s why you brought the hounds of Lavas, all this way,” said the captain. “None dare touch them but the rightful heir to Lavas. That’s what they’re saying.”

“What will you do now, you Lions?” Alain asked.

The lamps lit along the porch illuminated the captain’s crooked smile and flame-red hair. “Queen Theophanu herself called me to her chambers before we left. She has asked me to stay on as captain. It’s all I’m good for—training new Lions, that is. I’ll do it. As for these others, that’s up to them. They’ve served faithfully on a long road.”

“There’s a young woman named Leisl in the refugee camp. She’s looking for a husband willing to farm the land she inherited, and help her raise her nephews and nieces.” He nodded at the gaggle of men. Passing up the steps and under the porch, he crossed into the church.

In silence, the vault of air below the high ceiling of Hersford’s church breathes. A pair of monks murmurs prayers, and the lamps lit along the aisles whisper along their wicks, but otherwise the scene looks very like a painted mural.

The bier rests solidly on earth, holding death, which weighs heavily on all mortal kind. The face is uncovered and at peace. The black hair is combed neatly away from the beardless face. He is robed in rich linen, a fitting burial shroud. A glittering crown of stars sits upon the motionless chest. His cold hands hold it, a thing forever beyond his grasp.

Two women crowd close, one kneeling in an attitude of despair and the other standing with hands at rest on those bowed shoulders, but it is youth that has been felled and age that shows resilience. Mother Obligatia has gained remarkably in strength even in the short hours since they entered Hersford Monastery. It may be a tangled skein of sorcery is at work, or perhaps it is simply her joy at being reunited with her granddaughter that invigorates her.