CROWN OF STARS**

The Gathering Storm.

KATE ELLIOT.

PROLOUGE.

SHE dreamed.

In the vault of heaven spin wheels of gold, winking and dazzling. The thrum of their turning births a wind that spills throughout creation, so hot and wet that it becomes a haze. This mist clears to reveal the tomb of the Emperor Taillefer, his carved effigy atop a marble coffin. His stern face is caught eternally in repose. Stone fingers clutch the precious crown, symbol of his rule, each of the seven points set with a gem: gleaming pearl, lapis lazuli, pale sapphire, carnelian, ruby, emerald, and a banded orange-brown sardonyx.

Movement shudders inside each gem, a whisper, a shadow, a glimpse.

Villam's son Berthold rests peacefully on a bed of gold and gems, surrounded by six sleeping companions. He sighs, turning in his sleep, and smiles.

A hand scratches at the door of a hovel woven out of sticks, the one in which Brother Fidelis sheltered. As the door opens, the shadow of a man appears, framed by dying sunlight, his face obscured. He is tall and fair-haired, not Brother Fidelis at all. Crying out in fear, he runs away as a lion stalks into view.

Candlelight illuminates Hugh ofAustra as he turns the page of a book, his expression calm, his gaze intent. He follows the stream of words, his lips forming each one although he does not speak aloud. A wind through the open window makes the flame waver and shudder until she sees in that flame the horrible lie whispered to her by Hugh.

Heresy.

She knelt in the place of St. Thecla as the holy saint witnessed the cruel punishment meted out by the empress of the Dariyan Empire to those who rebelled against her authority. The blessed Daisan ascended to the sacrificial platform. He was bound onto a bronze wheel. Never did his smile falter although the priests flayed the skin from his body. Joy overwhelmed her, for was she not among the elect privileged to witness his death and redemption? The floodwaters of joy wash back over her to burn her. Is this not the heretical poison introduced into her soul by Hugh's lies? Yet what if Hugh isn't lying? Has he really discovered a suppressed account of the redemption? It surpasses understanding. In her confusion, the dream twists on a flare of light. In a high hall burn lamps molded into the shapes of phoenixes. Their I flames rise from wicks cunningly fixed into their brass tail feathers. Here I the skopos presides over a synod called to pass judgment over the heretics. The accused do not beg for mercy; they demand that the truth be I spoken at last. Her young brother Ivar stands boldly at the forefront. Who will interrogate them? Who will interrogate the church itself? If the I Redemption is true, if the blessed Daisan redeemed the sins of human-! kind by dying rather than being lifted bodily into heaven in the Ekstasis I white he prayed, then have the church mothers hidden the truth? Or only I lost it?

Who is the liar?

'Sister, I pray you. Wake up."

Dark and damp swept out from the dream to enclose her, and the cold prison of stone walls dragged her back to Earth. Light stung her I eyes. She shut them. A warm hand touched her shoulder, and she heard Brother Fortunatus speak again, although his voice had a catch in it.

'Sister Rosvita! God have mercy. Can you speak?"

With an effort she sat up, opening her eyes. Every joint ached. The chill of the dungeon had poisoned her to the bone. "I pray you," she said hoarsely, "move the light. It is too bright."

Only after the light moved to one side could she see Fortunatus' face. He was crying.

Her wits returned as in a flood. "How long have I been here? Without the sun, I cannot mark the passing of days. I do not hear the changing of any guard through that door."

He choked back tears. "Three months, Sister."

Three months!

A spasm of fear and horror overcame her, and she almost retched, but her stomach was empty and she dared not give in to weakness now. Strength of mind was all that had kept her sane in the intermiable days that had passed since that awful night when she had heard the voice of a daimone speak through Henry's mouth.

'What of King Henry? What of Queen Adelheid? Has she not even asked after me? Have none spoken for me, or asked what became of me? God above, Brother, what I saw- 'Sister Rosvita," he said sharply, "I fear you are made lightheaded by your confinement. I have brought you spelt porridge flavored with egg yolks, to strengthen your blood, and roasted quince, for your lungs."

They were not alone. The man holding the lamp was Petrus, a presbyter in the skopos' court, Hugh's admirer and ally. What she needed to say could not be said in front of him, because she dared not implicate Brother Fortunatus, the girls-Heriburg, Ruoda, Ger-wita-and the rest of her faithful clerics. If she could not protect herself, then certainly she had no hope of protecting them. Her father's rank and her own notoriety gave her some shelter, which was probably the only reason she was not dead; she doubted Fortunatus and the others could hope for even such small mercies as being thrown into a cell beneath the skopos' palace.

Fortunatus went on. "Sister Ruoda and Sister Heriburg bring soup and bread every day, Sister Rosvita, just after Sext, although I do not know if you receive it then."

He watched her with an expression of alarmed concern as she worked her way down to the bottom of the bowl. She was so hungry, and she supposed she must smell very bad since she was never given water to wash. But no disgust showed on Fortunatus' lean face. He looked ready to begin weeping again.

'You have not been eating well either, Brother. Have you been ill?"

'Only worried, Sister. You wandered off in a sleeping dream that night, as you are wont to do, and never returned. It did not take us long to discover where you had wandered to in your delirium, alas."

He smiled and nodded as if she were a simpleton whom he was soothing, but she read a different message in the tightening of his eyes and the twitch of his lips.

'Three months," she echoed, scarcely able to believe it. In that time she had meditated and prayed, and slept, knowing that whatever she suffered at the hands of men would only test the certainty 'f her faith in God. Yet who had lied to her? Hugh? Or the church mothers? She could not shake that last desperate dream from her thoughts.

'Truly, the weeks have passed," Fortunatus continued blandly.

'King Henry has ridden south with his army to fight the rebel lords, the Arethousan interlopers, and the Jinna bandits in southern Aosta. Queen Adelheid and her advisers rode with him. Since I could not go to the king, I asked for an audience with the skopos. After eight weeks of patient waiting, for you know that the cares of the world and of the heavens weigh upon her, I was admitted to her holy presence two days ago, on the feast day of St. Callista. She refused to release you, but she agreed that you ought to be allowed exercise in the corridor each day between the hours of Sext and Nones. Her generosity is without measure!"

Amazing, really, how he kept his voice steady, how he managed to keep sarcasm from his tone. The horrors of her confinement, the intense focus of mind she had brought to her prayer to keep herself from utter despair, were lightened by hearing him and by clasping his hand.

'The Holy Mother also gave me permission to pray with you every Hefensday. So do you find me here, Sister, with such provisions as I was allowed to carry as well as a blanket. As long as I am allowed, I will come every Hefensday to pray."

'Then it is almost the first day of Decial. The dark of the sun." Facts were a rope to cling to in a storm at sea. Knowing that she lay confined in this dungeon while, above, the good folk of Darre celebrated the feast day of St. Peter the Disciple, on the longest night of the year, amused her with its irony. "Does the Holy Mother wish me kept in this cell indefinitely?"

'If it is the Enemy's doing that causes you to walk in your sleep, Sister, then you must be kept apart to avoid contaminating others. There will be a special guard to walk with you at your exercise, one who is both mute and deaf."

She bowed her head. "So be it."

They would never be left alone, and even if they thought they were alone, Anne could still spy on them by means of magic. She could no longer speak frankly to him, nor he to her. Hugh knew that she had seen the king ensorcelled by a daimone and Helmut Villam killed by subtle magic at Hugh's hands, and yet Hugh still had not had her killed.

She was ill, she was hungry, and she was imprisoned in darkness in the dungeon beneath the holy palace, but by God she was not dead yet.

'Let us pray, then, Brother, as we will pray every Hefensday, if God so will it."

She knelt. The straw cushioned her knees, and she had grown accustomed to the aggravation of fleas and the scrabbling of rats. If her limbs were unsteady and her voice ragged, and if she shifted the wrong way because the glare of the lamp hurt her eyes, at least she had not lost her wits.

God willing, she would never lose her wits.

As Fortunatus began the service of Vespers, she knew at last what time of day it was: evening song. To this scrap she clung with joy. In an appropriate place she chose a psalm, as one added prayers of thanksgiving or pleading in honor of the saint whose feast day it was.

"It is good to give thanks to God for Their love endures forever. Those who lost their way in the wilderness found no city to shelter in. Hungry and thirsty, they lost heart, and they cried out to God, and God rescued them from their trouble. God turn rivers into desert and the desert into an oasis, fruitful land becomes wasteland and the wilderness a place of shelter. The wise one takes note of these things as she considers God's love."

When they had finished, Fortunatus answered her with a second psalm.

"Blessed be the Lord and Lady, who snatched us out of the haunts of the scorpions.

Like a bird, we have escaped from the fowler's snare.

The snare is broken, and we have flown.

Blessed be God, who together have made heaven and Earth."

Too soon, he had to leave. He kissed her hands as servant to master, wept again, and promised to return in one week. It was hard to see him, and the light, go. It was agony to hear the door scrape shut, the bar thud into place, and the sound of their footsteps fade. Fortunatus might return in a week, as he had promised, or he might never return. She might languish here for a month, or for ten years. She might die here, of hunger, of lung fever, or of despair, eaten by rats.

It was hard to remain hopeful in the blackness where Hugh had cast her.

But she had heard the promise implicit in Fortunatus' choice of prayer: Like a bird, we have escaped from the fowler's snare.

The King's Eagle, Hathui, had escaped and flown north to seek justice.

PART ONE.

THE air smelled of rain, heavy and unseasonably warm, and the wind blowing in from the east brought with it the smells of the village: woodsmoke, ripe privies, and the stink of offal from the afternoon's slaughter of five pigs. Just yesterday Hanna and the cohort of Lions and sundry milites who were her escort had journeyed through snow flurries. Now it was temperate enough to tuck away gloves and set aside cloaks as they ate a supper of freshly roasted pig as well as cold porridge and a bitter ale commandeered from the village larder. Yet neither the food nor the familiar smells of the Wendish countryside brought her comfort. East lay the object of her hatred, still living, still eating. Her choked fury was like a scab ripped open every single day.

'Come now, Hanna," said Ingo. "You're not eating enough. If this cut of roast won't tempt you, I can surely dig up some worms."

She ate obediently, knowing how her mother would have scolded her for the unthinkable sin of refusing to eat meat when it was available, but her heart was numb. Hate had congealed in her gut, and she could not shake it loose.

'Ai, Lady," said Folquin. "You've got that look on your face again.

I told you I would kill him for you. I'd have snuck right into his tent when he was asleep and stabbed him through the heart."

For months, as a prisoner of the Qunian, she had shed no tears. Now every little thing, a stubbed toe, a child's giggle, a friend's helpless grimace, made her cry. "I can't believe Prince Sanglant let him live," she said hoarsely. "He should have hanged him!"

'So said Princess Sapientia," commented Leo, "and so she's no doubt continuing to say, I suppose, for all the good it will do her."

'Anything could have happened since we left the army," suggested Stephen quietly. "Prince Sanglant could have changed his mind about killing him. Once the army reaches Handelburg, then the holy biscop might agree with Princess Sapientia and demand his execution. Princess Sapientia is the rightful heir, after all, isn't she? Prince Sanglant is only a bastard, so even though he's the elder, doesn't he have to do what she says?"

Ingo glanced around to make sure none but the five of them were close enough to hear. Other campfires sparked and smoked in the meadow, each with its complement of soldiers eating and chatting in the gray autumn twilight, but certainly far fewer Lions were marching west back into Wendar than had marched east over a year ago.

'You don't understand the way of the world yet, lad. Princess Sapientia can't rule if there's none who will follow her."

'What about God's law?" asked Stephen.

Ingo had a world-weary smirk that he dragged out when dealing with the youngest and most naive members of the Lions. "The one who rules the army rules."

'Hush," said Leo.

Captain Thiadbold walked toward them through the overgrazed meadow, withered grass snapping under his feet. Trees rose behind the clearing, the vanguard of the Thurin Forest.

Ingo rose when Thiadbold halted by the fire's light. "Captain. Is all quiet?"

'As quiet as it can be. I thought those villagers would never stop squealing. You'd think they were the pigs being led to the slaughter. They've forgotten that if they want the protection of the king, then they have to feed his army." Thiadbold brushed back his red hair as he looked at Hanna. "I've had a talk with the elders, now that they've calmed down. It seems an Eagle rode through just yesterday. Princess Theophanu's not at Quedlinhame any longer. She's ridden north with her retinue to Gent."

Sometimes it was difficult to remember that the world kept on although she'd been frozen in place.

When she did not speak, Ingo answered. "Will we be turning north to Gent?"

'Quedlinhame is closer," objected Hanna wearily. "We'll be another ten days or more on the road if we turn north to Gent."

Thiadbold frowned, still watching her. "Prince Sanglant charged us to deliver his message, and the king's Lions, to his sister and none other. We must follow Princess Theophanu."

The others murmured agreement, but Hanna, remembering duty, touched the emerald ring on her finger that King Henry himself had given her as a reward for her loyalty. Duty and loyalty were the only things that had kept her alive for so long. "So Prince Sanglant said, but what will serve King Henry best? The king needs to know what has transpired in his kingdom. His sister rules over Quedlinhame convent. We might deliver ourselves to Mother Scholastica with no shame. She will know what to do."

'If Prince Sanglant had wanted us to deliver his message to Mother Scholastica, he could have sent us to her. It seems to me he meant his message, and these Lions, for Theophanu."

'Not for Henry?" Rising, she winced at the painful ache in her hips, still not healed after the bad fall she had taken fourteen days ago during the battle at the Veser River. Pain had worn her right through, but she had to keep going. "Is your loyalty to the king, or to his bastard son?"

'Hanna!" Folquin's whisper came too late.

Thiadbold studied her, a considering frown still curving his lips. She liked Thiadbold better than most; he was a good captain, even-tempered and clever, and unflappable in battle. The Lions under his command trusted him, and Prince Sanglant had brought him into his councils. "I beg pardon for saying so," he said finally, "but it's the chains you stubbornly carry of your own will that weigh you down the most. No use carrying stones in your sack if you've no need to."

'I'll thank you, Captain, to leave me to walk my own road in peace. You didn't see the things I saw."

'Nay, so I did not, nor would I wish any person to see what you saw, nor any to suffer it, but- She limped away, unwilling to hear more. He swore and hurried after her.

'Truce, then," he said as he came up beside her. "I'll speak no more on this subject, only I must warn you-"

'I pray you, do not."

He raised his hands in surrender, and his lips twisted in something resembling a smile but concealing unspoken words and a wealth of emotion. A spark of feeling flared in her heart, unbidden and unexpected. She had to concede he was well enough looking, with broad shoulders and that shock of red hair. Was it possible the interest he had taken in her over the last two weeks, after the battle and then once Prince Sanglant had sent them away from the main army to track down Theophanu, was more than comradely? Was he, however mildly, courting her? Did she find him attractive?

But to think of a man at all in that way made her think of Bulkezu, and anger and hatred scoured her clean in a tide of loathing.

Maybe Bulkezu had died of the wound to his face that he had received at the Veser. Maybe it had festered and poisoned him. But her Eagle's Sight told her otherwise.

She halted beside a pile of wood under the spreading branches of an oak tree that stood at the edge of the forest. Acorns slipped under her feet. Most of the wood had been split by the Lions and taken* away to feed campfires, but a few unsplit logs remained. Thiadbold crossed his arms, not watching her directly, and said nothing. There was still enough light to distinguish his mutilated ear, the lobe cut cleanly away and long since healed in a dimple of white scar tissue. He had a new scar on his chin, taken at the Veser.

Ai, God, so many people had died at the hands of Bulkezu.

Rolling a log into place between several rocks, she grabbed the ax and started chopping. Yet not even the gleeful strike of the ax into wood could cut the rage and sorrow out of her.

The wind gusted as a hard rain swept over them. Soldiers scrambled for the shelter of their canvas tents. She retreated under the sheltering canopy of the oak. Out in the open, campfires wavered under the storm's force. One went right out, drowned by the heavy rain, and the dozen others flickered and began to die. Distant lightning flashed, and a few heartbeats later, thunder cracked and rumbled.

'That came on fast," remarked Thiadbold. "Usually you can hear them coming."

'I felt it. They should have taken shelter sooner."

'So must we all. Prince Sanglant is a man who hears the tide of battle before the rest of us quite know what is about to hit us. He's like a hound that way, hearing and smelling danger before an ordi nary man knows there's a beast ready to pounce. If he fears for the kingdom, if he fears that his father will not listen while black sorcery threatens Wendar, then I, for one, trust his instinct."

'Or his ambition?"

'Do you think so? That all this talk of a sorcerous cabal is only a cloak for vanity and greed? That he is simply a rebel intent on his own gain and glory?"