Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars #7)

Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars #7) Page 96

“So you say. Many innocent souls have lost their lives.”

“But the rest will live in peace because of it.” He fell silent, awaiting her response.

What flowered within her was an astonishing sense of peace.

Hugh had no power of his own except what he could wreak against others, a man armed with a sword who must stand on the field against disciplined ranks of archers and cavalry. This made him no less dangerous. A man with a sword can still kill anyone who comes within arm’s reach. As long as Hugh could twist others to do his will, he could, and would, harm his enemies and every innocent soul who got in his way.

He was the bastard child of a powerful noble who had used him poorly, giving him education and desire without any way to wield it or the strength of will to rein it in. Margrave Judith had put him in the church, where he could rise to be presbyter, as he had done by a circuitous route. But becoming presbyter was not enough for Hugh. He wanted a different sort of power, and he had no way to obtain it except through sorcery. He had wielded power through Adelheid’s agency, by ensorcelling Henry, because he had no power in his own heart.

Any person with the will to do what is right has power of a kind, however frail a reed that may seem when it comes time to stand tall against the storm. But in the end, in God’s heart, it is the only power that matters.

He had seen, before anyone but Da and those who knew what she was, that she had power he wanted to possess. But it was the fire at the heart of her that he desired, not her. Never her, that person whom Sanglant was perfectly willing to argue with, cajole, irritate, and love.

She had what Hugh wanted. She was what Hugh wanted to be.

“What is your plan?” she asked him.

“I have a rope. I’ll throw it down to you, and haul you up. We can escape through the crown that stands near here.”

“Where is it?”

“A few days’ walk, beyond the White Road.”

“Very well. Throw down the rope.”

She heard it uncoil with a scraping slither. Its final lengths thumped lightly on the cavern’s floor. She fished for and found the greasy wool, tossed it high into the air, and called fire into this cloud. It blazed.

There! Alongside the smooth cavern wall dangled the rope, with no more than a single coil remaining on the ground. She reached it before the wool burned itself into nothing.

She jerked hard on the rope, but it held.

“I’ve made it fast. You must hurry. Tie it around your waist, and I’ll haul you up.”

“How did you come to find me?”

“You’re imprisoned in a secret place in the midst of their great city.”

“I know. How did you find me?”

“The priests are in a rage, claiming they are owed a sacrifice. A raiding party had taken a powerful captive, rumor said, but the members of that raiding party would not speak of it. The Feather Cloak need answer no questions.”

“Feather Cloak?” She recalled Feather Cloak, that stern and pregnant leader who had banished her from Ashioi country.

“Sanglant’s mother is Feather Cloak.”

She caught a surprised laugh, making a kind of a snort. Sanglant’s mother had grasped the reins of power among the Ashioi. What had happened to the other Feather Cloak?

“It was Feather Cloak who told you I was here?”

“It was not. I am her prisoner, but I have other sources of information.”

No doubt a woman—some flint-eyed warrior girl who spilled the truth to him in the hope of gaining his smile and, perhaps, a kiss. Women could be stupid, that was certainly true. Liath did not hope to be one of those women today. Hugh was certainly lying, she just wasn’t sure what part of his story was false, and which truth.

Blessing is recovered. Alive. Living.

“I want a knife before I’ll come up,” she said, “to defend myself with. I have no reason to trust you.”

“If you don’t trust me, you’ll remain their prisoner. At their mercy. Do you know what the priests do to their sacrifices? Why they are called the blood knives?”

“I want a knife. Or I won’t come up.”

“If I drop it, it might hit you.”

She slid backward along the wall ten paces, and called. “A knife, or I won’t come up.”

“I pray you, Liath. If we wait too long, we may be discovered.”

“A knife.”

He wanted her so badly that he betrayed himself. An object rasped along rock. Silence swallowed its fall, then it rattled on stone.

What manner of fool gave a knife to a prisoner?