The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars #3)

The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars #3) Page 158

Finally he gripped the tasseled end of the altar cloth in one hand and pressed the cloth against his forehead. “God, I pray you,” he whispered. “I beg you, heal my father.”

For the longest time he listened, but he heard no answer.

“I beg you, come, my lord,” said the frater quietly, reentering the chamber. “The count is asking for you.”

He followed the frater quietly, and so quietly did they come that he paused at the threshold to Lavastine’s chamber without at first being noticed. Fear still lay on the bed, and Sorrow and Rage sat within reach of the count’s hand, should he wish to pat them. As unnaturally still as Terror, they ignored the folk crowded around the bed, and Alain did, too. He could not take his eyes from Lavastine.

No casual observer could possibly have guessed that the count was anything but a late riser, sitting comfortably in his bed with a hand on the head of his favorite hound as he disposed of the business of the day before getting up to go hunting or hawking. No casual observer could possibly have guessed that the legs hidden under the blanket now felt like stone, and that the bed had already been reinforced once underneath to take the extra weight.

Was he terrified as the poison crept inexorably day by day up his body?”

“Be sure that the second best bedspread goes to your daughter, Mistress Dhuoda, for her dower. Of my second best tunics, be sure that one goes to the captain’s window for her eldest son and the others to each of my loyal servingmen.” The slightest of smiles graced his mouth as he nodded toward a rotund steward who waited at the foot of the bed. “Except for Christof, here, for I fear he would need two to cover him.” There was a hearty laugh from everyone in the room, but Alain could see the tears in their eyes; in every eye, except for Lavastine’s. “But there is a good piece of linen in the weaving house that should be ample for him, I trust.”

A frater sat at the table, writing everything down as Lavastine went on. “Once the weaving house is done with the new tapestries for the hall, I wish the ones hanging there now to go to Bativia.”

“But haven’t you assigned that manor to your cousin’s daughter?” asked Dhuoda from her seat beside the bed.

“To Lavrentia, yes, when she comes of age. I will not have it said that I left her with scraps. Those tapestries will do very nicely there. It’s a small hall but well built and warm in the winter. Has there been any word from Geoffrey yet?”

“No, my lord count,” said Dhuoda with a frown. She looked at the frater who had come in with Alain, but he only shrugged.

Lavastine followed the direction of her gaze rather more slowly, as if his neck was stiff and it was hard to move. He managed to lift his right arm to beckon Alain, but it clearly took some effort. “I want Lord Geoffrey’s sworn word that he will support my son in every way he can once I am gone.”

Several servants drew the Circle at their chests. Alain threw himself down beside the bed.

“You won’t die, Father! See how slowly it grips you—you’ll recover. I know you will!”

Lavastine struggled to get his arm up and with a grimace of satisfaction rested it on Alain’s bowed head. Already it weighed far more than it ought to. “The poison creeps higher every day, Son. I can only imagine the creature had expended most of its poison upon my faithful hounds and so had little enough for me. I suppose it is possible that the poison will only paralyze me, but I do not feel any such hope in my heart. Do not despair. I am at peace with God, and I have left precise instructions.” He looked toward the table where the frater had paused in his writing, then back at Alain, his gaze cool and calm. “My wishes and commands are clear in this matter. You need only to prove your worthiness by producing an heir.”

2

ALL the Ungrians smelled funny, but they looked powerful and warlike in their padded coats, fur capes, and tasseled caps as they assembled for the wedding feast in the great hall of the biscop of Handelburg’s palace.

Prince Bayan was a man in his prime, stocky, sun-weathered, with a fair bit of silver in his black hair and a habit of twisting the drooping ends of his mustaches. He had brought his mother, but she remained concealed in a palanquin, hidden by walls of gold silk. Four male slaves—one with skin as black as pitch, one as ice-blond and fair as Hanna, one golden-skinned with strangely pulled eyes, and one who looked much like the Ungrian warriors surrounding them—braced the litter on their shoulders so that it never touched the ground. The feast had started at noon and yet by late afternoon not one platter of food had passed behind the concealing silks.