Never argue with Lady Fortune, her mother would say.

Nervous every time a branch creaked or cracked under the weight of snow, she returned to the others. They were eager to be gone from the scene of carnage.

"Didn't they kill even one?" demanded Lord Frithuric." I thought Lord Dietrich's cousins were strong fighters."

"Maybe they were taken unawares," said Hanna, which shut them up.

Maybe she had ridden under worse conditions in her time as an Eagle, but she couldn't think of any. The silence became excruciating. Little arguments flared up over nothing, tempers goaded into flame by anxiety. They slogged on and on and on along the path that led them deeper into the forest, far past the woodland fringes where they had traveled thus far, on into the old uncut heart, a vast tract of trees and silence. They saw no living creatures except themselves. The path was their only landmark. They waded knee-deep through snow along a narrow track bounded by trees. Except for a detour here and there to cut around an escarpment or dip down to a ford in a stream, the path took a fairly straight course through the old foeest. Luckily for their feet, the streams had all frozen over, making every crossing easy.

The worst part of the whole long, cold, nerve-racking, miserable day was that it got dark so early, leaving them caught in twilight deep in the forest without shelter.

Fortunately, the old sergeant, Gotfrid, knew woodcraft. He spotted a dense stand of fir trees off to the right of the path. In their center, under overhanging branches, they discovered a living cathedral blanketed with needles and almost free of snow. The air lay close and quiet underneath the overarching branches. In an odd way, Hanna felt protected here, as though they had stumbled upon an ancient refuge. Eighteen people and the eight horses could all crowd in, as long as two men were posted as sentries at the fringes to peer out into the darkening forest. Clouds hung low, seeming to brush the tops of trees, and snow skirled down, spinning and drifting.

"It's really beautiful," she murmured to old Gotfrid. She had come up beside his sentry post to survey their situation." Or would be, anyway, if we had a fire and mead."

"And no Quman lurking like wolves to feed on us," he agreed. He was a good man, stable, shrewd, and steady, who had spent most of his adult life as a Lion.

"There's something I don't understand, though, Gotfrid." She glanced back to make sure the others couldn't hear them. Several ranks of trees, each taller and broader than the last, separated them from the hidden center." Why would a practical man like you throw away everything for a heresy?"

He chuckled, taking no offense at the question, as she'd guessed he wouldn't. He was old enough to have white in his hair and a few age spots on his face." You're thinking that those young lords might be taking to a heresy just because they're young and rash and fools, aren't you? That's because you're a practical young woman, as I've seen." He spoke the words approvingly, and it was a measure of the respect she'd gained for him on this desperate journey that she smiled, pleased with the compliment." But it isn't a whim, friend." He faltered, growing suddenly serious.

Snow fell softly throughout the vista beyond, a mantle of white over everything. It was almost too dark to see.

"Have you ever seen a rose?" he asked finally.

"Truly, I have seen one or two in my time. I saw the king's rose garden at Autun."

"Well, then." He hesitated again. She studied him. He wasn't handsome or ugly but rather comfortably in between, with the broad shoulders and thick arms of a soldier. He was, perhaps, the same age as the king but rather more weathered by the hardships of life in the infantry, and if he stumbled with his words it was because he'd had a soldier's education, not a cleric's." Think of a rose blooming all of a sudden in your heart." He gestured toward the silent forest, all chill and white, a sea of winter." Think of a rose blooming there, in the snow, where you'd never think to see it. Wouldn't that be a miracle? Wouldn't you know that you'd stumbled upon a little sliver of G.o.d's truth?"

"I suppose so."

He spoke so quietly that she almost couldn't hear him." A holy one walks among us. But we mustn't speak of it, because G.o.d hasn't chosen to make Her messenger known yet. But the rose bloomed in my heart, Eagle. I have no better way to explain it, how I knew it was truth when I heard the preaching about the Sacrifice and Redemption. The rose bloomed, and I'd rather die than turn my back now. I'd rather die." There wasn't a breath of wind.

"Those seem ill-chosen words, friend, considering our situation," said Hanna finally, not unkindly.

"We've had poor luck, haven't we? G.o.d is testing us." "So They are." The cold seeped down into her bones. She chafed her hands to warm them." But Lord Dietrich was stricken down and died when he professed the heresy."

"I think he was poisoned by the biscop." Gotfrid spoke these words so calmly that Hanna expected the sky to fall, but it did not. All she heard was the m.u.f.fled noises of their party, hidden among the firs: a low mutter of conversation, the sting of smoke in her nostrils from a fire, the stamp and restless whickering of the horses. Twice she heard Lord Lothar's hacking cough." That's a bold charge," she said at last.

"You think so, too," he said grimly, "or else you'd leap to her defense. I think she poisoned him because she saw he wouldn't back down. He was the strongest of us in faith. She hoped to frighten the rest of us into recanting." He leaned toward her, close enough that his breath stirred her hair." Don't think there weren't others among the crowd who had heard and believed. They hold the truth in their hearts as well."

"But hadn't the courage to step forward." "Well," he said generously, "not everyone is ready to die, if it comes to that. Someone has to survive to spread the truth, don't they?"

She chuckled, finding it amusing that they could debate matters of heresy while running for their lives through this vale of ice." I like living, and I wouldn't mind a nice hot cup of spiced wine right now."

CHILD OF FLAME "Well, la.s.s, truly, so would we all."

But back in their refuge, there wasn't anything but stale bread. She did manage to sleep curled up in her cloak until one of the soldiers woke her for a turn at watch. Within the shelter of the trees, with so many bodies crowded together, it had actually gotten not warm, of course, but bearable. As she pushed her way out through the stinging branches, she felt all the warmth sucked away by a raw cold so profound that for a moment she thought it might seize her heart. She came to the edge of the thick stand of trees and at once floundered into a thigh-high drift of new snow, all powdery soft. Snow slipped down her leggings to freeze her ankles and toes. She staggered back into the shelter of the firs and tried to make sense of the scene before her.

She heard it, and felt it, more than saw it, because it was still too dark to see. She tasted that flavor the air has when snow falls thick and fast and the clouds weigh so heavily that one knows a blizzard is on the way. Flakes settled on her nose, and cheeks, and eyelids, and melted away. Ai, G.o.d, if the Quman didn't kill them, then they would freeze to death in the coming storm.

A thread of falling snow, dislodged from a branch just to her right, hissed down past her ear. She went as still as a rabbit who has just sensed the shadow of an owl. Something was out there.

Beyond the veil of snow, wraithlike figures darted forward among the trees.

Quman.

Nay, not Quman at all. There was just enough light now, a hint of dawn, that she could make out their outlines: Slender and pale, these creatures walked rather than rode. Dark hoods obscured their faces, and where their feet brushed the snow they did not sink down through the light powder, nor did they leave tracks. They were shadows.

Ghosts.

One flung back its hood. She saw its face clearly: an Aoi face, more shade than substance, with the sharp cheekbones and broad lineaments common to Prince Sanglant's ancestors. Feathers decorated its hair, and the bow it carried in its hands gleamed softly, as if it weren't made of wood but of ensorcelled bone. Its eyes were as cold as the grave as it paused to sniff the air, scenting for prey.

There were some things more frightening than the Quman.

She whistled sharply. The sound gave away her position. Before she could even take a single step back into the protecting tangle of firs, an arrow caught in her sleeve. As delicate as a needle, it had no fletching. It hung from the cloth, point lodged where the fabric creased at her elbow, and dissolved into smoke, simply and utterly gone.

Instinct made her duck to the right. A second arrow spit past, just where she'd been standing. A third caught in the dense fir above her, tumbled, and vanished as it fell.

A cry of alarm split the air. Shrieks and shouts erupted from the refuge within the" firs.

Hanna scrambled back into the firs. Branches sc.r.a.ped her face, pulled at her cloak, and yanked her hood back from her hair. Her braid caught and tangled in the crook of a branch. As she jerked her head sideways to free it, another spray of needles whistled past, spattering like falling stones down around her before they hissed out of existence. One struck her in the heel, but the needle-thin arrow couldn't penetrate leather. Or so she hoped. Stumbling forward, she didn't have time to check.

She burst into the open s.p.a.ce under the tallest trees, as dark as sin except for the fire smoking and sparking where someone had thrown needles over it to kill it. She sucked in a breath to cry a warning but got such a lungful of smoke that she could barely breathe. Hacking, eyes burning, she grabbed for the nearest horse, snagged its reins, and glimpsed Gotfrid. The old Lion had formed up with two of his fellows to make a little wall of shields to defend Prince Ekkehard, much good that it did them.

Someone yelled, "G.o.d save us! My arrows go right through them! They're demons-"

The voice cut off. Then a man-maybe the one who had shouted fell backward right onto the smoking fire, clawing frantically at the arrow stuck in his throat.

Between one breath and the next, Ekkehard and his entire party panicked.

Hanna barely kept hold of the horse as men and horses b.u.mped and careened past her. Smoke filled her eyes, blinding her, and she staggered into the thickest tangle of branches until she fetched up there, face scratched and raw, one glove torn off, hair coming free of her braid. She couldn't go any farther, and she'd lost the horse's reins. She turned around to try to find it, and almost screamed.

Facing her stood a pale figure, more shadow than substance. It had a woman's body but the face of a vulture, and the gleaming bronze armor at its chest was embossed with vulture-headed women bearing spears into battle.

Hanna could actually see the faint outline of the fir trees through its body, or maybe, horribly, actually even piercing its body, as though it weren't really entirely there.

Lowering its bow, it spoke." I smell the stench of our old enemy upon you, human. That is how we tracked you down." It drew a long, ugly knife.

Stark terror flooded her.

It was going to kill her. With the branches pressed in against her, she couldn't reach her bow. Her fingers found the hilt of her eating knife, but she knew it was hopeless, that cold iron would do nothing more than stick itself in the trunk of the tree behind the phantom, while any least touch from a cursed elven blade or arrow would sicken a mortal unto death.

It was going to kill her.

That was it, her last thought: Ai, G.o.d. I'll never see Liath again.

The owl appeared out of nowhere, all beating wings and tearing beak. A moment's reprieve, that was all. A moment was all Hanna needed. She dropped to her knees and crawled like a madwoman, finding room to escape all the way down against the ground under a roof made of the lowest branches. Her bow sc.r.a.ped wood, and an arrow, catching on a branch, snapped as she broke forward. The bed of dry needles gave way to a dusting of snow, and she pushed through low-hanging branches and found herself facing into a drift. She burrowed up between two sprawling branches and floundered forward through the snow.

All she could think about was getting away. There was enough light to see, now, although everything was still in shades of gray as dawn fought to vanquish night, not an easy task with snow falling heavily and a dense blanket of clouds covering the sky. It was bitterly cold. Through the snow she saw other figures struggling to flee and, there, a lone horse.

With difficulty, she plowed through the snow and got hold of the horse's reins. It reared back, terrified, and she almost lost hold of it.

One of the young lords materialized out of the snow beside her. He grabbed the reins out of her hands and within moments had the horse under control. By the way he favored one arm, she realized it was Prince Ekkehard. He turned to stare at her. He looked pale, scared, and very very young.

"Come on, Eagle. Lothar's dead and Thiemo's lost. We've got to run."

Behind them, a man screamed horribly. She began to turn, to go to his aid, but Ekkehard lurched forward as if the cry had propelled him on, and she didn't want to be left alone, G.o.d help her, to face those creatures. Sick at heart, she pressed through the snow in the prince's wake. From this angle, she saw thin red gashes scoring the horse's flanks, the mark of elfshot. Ekkehard's cloak was torn. They hadn't gone more than twenty wallowing steps through the snow when they were hailed.

"My lord p prince." The voice was ragged and almost incoherent with fear. Four of the young lordlings had taken refuge behind a ma.s.sive elm, now stripped of foliage. They had three horses between them. As soon as they saw that Ekkehard was safe, they all blundered out into the snowy forest, aiming in no certain direction but only away from the refuge where they had so hopefully taken shelter the night before.

Hanna glimpsed a handful of other figures retreating far off to one side. Was that Gotfrid? She couldn't be sure, and she dared not call out to him, and anyway, he was already gone, lost beyond the veil of snow and the ranks of evergreens. Maybe she had only dreamed them. Maybe it was the shadow elves, circling around in order to ambush them somewhere else.

One of the boys was weeping, "Lothar's dead. Lothar's dead."

Ekkehard said, in a breathless voice, "Shut up, Manegold. They'll hear us."

"As if we aren't making the noise of an army," muttered Frithuric.

Lord Welf still had hold of the banner, although the haft had gotCHILD or FLAME ten broken off halfway, and the young man was so dispirited that he dragged it through the snow as he stumbled on. Snow fell densely around them, soft and silent, until Hanna thought they would be buried alive.

After a long time, Benedict said in a whisper, "I think we've escaped them."

They all stumbled to a stop, breath billowing white in the cold air. The horses whickered nervously. Frithuric coughed. Ekkehard hissed a warning. They stood there with the trees all around them half invisible through the falling snow. It was utterly silent, except for the delicate shift of snow through branches and the merest whisper of wind through the crowns of trees. Because of the falling snow, Hanna couldn't see more than a stone's toss in any direction, but it all looked the same anyway: snow and trees, trees and snow.

"We're lost," said Lord Benedict finally in a very small, very frightened voice.

"I'm going to barf," said Lord Welf suddenly.

"My foot hurts," said Ekkehard, sounding surprised.

"We're all going to freeze out here," said Hanna sensibly, "if we don't keep moving. We mustn't believe we've escaped those those shades. Whatever they were."

"They're the ancient ones," whined Manegold, half frantic, almost babbling, "who were cursed for being pagans and foul murderers who cut up babies on their altars. They were cursed to walk as ghosts forever. That's why they hate us. My old nurse told me stories-"

"All the more reason to keep moving," snapped Hanna, hoping a firm hand would get them going.

So it did. She'd learned that trick from her mother when it came time to get drunken men out of the inn and off to their homes late at night.

She grabbed the reins out of the prince's hands and pushed forward. There was no point in caring what direction they went now, except away from where they'd come. She supposed that the shades of the Aoi would have no trouble tracking them down no matter what the weather, but she'd be d.a.m.ned if she'd stand here waiting for them to take her unawares from the back. Let her die if she must, but as she'd said to Gotfrid not that many hours before, she'd really prefer to keep on living even if she wasn't going to get a nice hot cup of spiced wine for her trouble.

Ekkehard and his comrades followed smartly. For all their complaining, they were strong young men, well fed, strengthened by riding and weapons drill, and so scared that none of them wanted to be the one to fall behind.

Hanna's feet felt like ice and her hands were freezing. Flakes of snow stuck to her eyelashes. She flinched at every least crack and hiss from the snow-laden trees around them, but she pressed on determinedly. As long as they were moving, they weren't dead.

That was the only thing she was sure of right now.

The trees looked denser up ahead, although it was hard to tell anything for sure through the snow. A crowded line of trees like that, matted with underbrush, usually signaled a settlement or a stream. If it were the former, then they'd have shelter. If the latter, then they could follow its frozen path more easily through the forest, hoping it would lead them eventually to a place of refuge.

She reached the edge of the trees and found a deer trail, still visible because the snow made a trough where the path cut through the trees. Was that smoke she smelled? But the smell was gone quickly, nothing but a wish fled like mist under the morning sun. It began to snow harder. If they didn't find shelter soon, they would die.

The path cut around a corner. She glimpsed an opening through a curtain of branches.

"Wait!" cried one of the young lords behind her.

Too late she remembered caution. The shadow elves weren't the only enemies they were running from. But she had already taken enough of a step. Her calf caught on a trip wire, and she flew headlong, hit a slope tumbling, and slid and rolled down until she came to rest, dizzy and shaken, on her back in the snow under a cold, hard sky. It had, abruptly, stopped snowing.

The spear point came first, neatly shoved right up to the bridge of her nose. With an effort, eyes almost crossing, she focused away from that light but deadly pressure. Someone was holding that spear, someone big and very solid, not a shade at all but quite horribly real.

The hideous and most menacing thing about him was that he had gleaming iron wings and no face, only a flat iron-gray visor with eyeholes.

With something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, he twisted off his helmet without letting slip his grip on the spear. Glossy black hair spilled over his shoulders like silk. Still stupefied, Hanna stared up into the face of the handsomest man she'd ever laid eyes on: A Quman warrior wearing the wings of a griffin.

THEY had blundered into the camp of the Quman raiding party.

Of course. Their luck could hardly get any worse.

She didn't dare move, even though the snow was leaking in through her clothing, making her skin sting. Men called out to each other in an incomprehensible language. A horse neighed in challenge.

Was that the sound of a skirmish? Or only the ring of cooking pots clanging together? She listened for Ekkehard's voice but heard nothing.

The warrior lifted his spear point from her face and handed it to someone unseen. He dropped to his knees beside her and, with an expression of astonished delight, reached down to touch her hair. She clenched her jaw, willing herself not to react as he traced a line down to her ear and picked up what remained of her braid, fingering it as if it were the most precious substance he'd ever encountered.

The unexpected beauty of his face, together with the knowledge that she was probably just about to have her throat slit, stunned her. He had a dark complexion, piercingly dark eyes, a scant mustache, and a wisp of a beard, but it was the elegant shape of his face, the dimple in his left cheek, and the brightness of his expression that marked him most. By this time his hair had fallen down over his shoulders, spilling everywhere, so glorious that she had an insane urge to touch it.

Until, that is, her gaze fastened on the gruesome ornament dangling from his belt. The shrunken head swayed gently. Its grisly face, so revolting with those distorted features and blackened skin, swung in and out of her view. There was something nause-atingly familiar about it, maybe only that it was a human face and had once, not long ago, ornamented a living, breathing person rather than a savage's belt. The hair that crowned it had a sickly orange-brown hue, as though the poor dead man had once had hair as light as her own before it had been dipped in a noxious dye.

A voice called out. Her captor stood up, attention skipping so quickly away from her that she risked levering herself up on an elbow. No one leaped in to slaughter her, so she was able to watch as the prince-what else could he be, with those griffin wings and that swagger?-walked across the clearing to regard his captives.

They had Ekkehard and his four remaining comrades trussed up like birds being taken to the cooking pot. One of the Quman soldiers tossed a sc.r.a.p of cloth to the prince. At first, the breadth of his wings hid him from Hanna's view. From this angle she saw clearly the harness attached to his lamellar armor, curving wood wings fletched by griffin feathers. Breschius had told her about griffin feathers. Only the greatest Quman heroes wore them, since they had to kill and pluck the beast themselves.

He turned sideways to shake out the banner, laughing as he saw Ekkehard's standard embroidered there: a golden harp and lion salient on a red field. He seemed to find the strangest things amusing. With a sharp whistle, he summoned to his side a man of indeterminate years but cla.s.sic Wendish features. They spoke together. The Wendish man turned to regard the five youths with a sour frown.

"Which of you rates this banner, then?"

Ekkehard and company stood stubbornly silent.

The Wendish man spat on the snow." Oh, for the love of the blessed Daisan, do you want yer c.o.c.k cut off or not, for they'll not be hesitating if you don't give them satisfaction. Don't be thinking there's any bargaining with His Pompousness here." As he spoke the insulting name, he bowed with outward respect to the man with the glorious hair." Because let me tell you, you're lucky you're not all lying dead. He wants to know whose banner it is, and if any of you have the right to it."

As boldly as he could, given the rope binding his wrists, the condition of his hair and face, and the rips and stains in his clothing, Prince Ekkehard stepped forward." I am Ekkehard, son of King Henry, royal prince of the realm of Wendar and Varre. I wear the gold torque to mark my kinship to the royal house. Spare our lives, and I vouch that my father will pay a worthy ransom for us."

The interpreter stopped listening after the words "gold torque," and spoke quickly to his master.

The Quman prince listened intently. He seemed to have forgotten Hanna, or else he was the kind of man who only did one thing at a time. Cautiously, she ventured to sit all the way up.

The Quman camp consisted of one large round tent imperfectly camouflaged by a coating of snow and about a dozen smaller round tents, each one big enough for four men to sleep in. A long and slender standard dangled from the center post of each tent, white cloth marked with three raking stripes. After a moment, she recognized what it must be: the claw's rake, mark of the Pechanek clan. Lady Fortune was surely laughing at Hanna today: she had fallen in with a raiding party from the tribe of Bulkezu himself, leader of the Quman army.

The prince stepped forward to unpin Ekkehard's cloak, pull down the front of his tunic, and run a finger along the twisted gold braids of Ekkehard's torque. For an instant, Hanna expected him to rip the torque right off Ekkehard's neck, because surely that's what savages did in their l.u.s.t for gold. But he only grunted and stepped back without further molesting Ekkehard. With a grand gesture, he spoke, then waited for the interpreter's translation.