As the flames sprang to life in a semicircle around her, a hunched figure emerged from the blizzard, approaching her at a run. It was a man; that much she could see. He carried a spear.

She drew her knife and waited. No use shooting arrows in this wind. The heat of the fire melted the snow around her; icy water pooled at her feet, soaking her boots. The man halted a prudent distance from her, measuring her as she measured him. Although the clothing he wore appeared scarcely heavier than her own, he did not seem on the verge of death by freezing. He was, oddly enough, smiling as he surveyed her. Ice rimed his black hair, and he had a startling and massive scar across one cheek that marred his features but did not, quite, make him ugly. Otherwise he appeared as might any man caught out in such a storm: wary, freezing, desperate, and respectful of the fire burning at her back.

'I saw the fire," he shouted, words almost inaudible under the scream of the wind. "Are you the one called Liathano? I did not think to find you in this country."

She had never seen this man before. Or had she? Memory nagged at her, but she had no time for the luxury of caution. Questions must come later. Already she could not feel her feet, and the hot flames were losing their battle against the storm, dying down around her despite their initial fury. Against the blizzard, even fire could not triumph. By his coloring and the cast of his features, this man was one of the steppe tribesmen. Although barbarians, they knew this country as no other humans did.

'Do you know where we can find shelter?" she cried, pitching her voice to be heard above the wind.

He laughed, a mad and rather disturbing cackle. "Here there is no shelter but that found where griffins nest."

'So be it," she said, "for I will certainly die out here without shelter but may yet survive hidden within a griffin's nest."

He gestured with his spear. Within this storm, all directions looked the same to her. "Come," he said.

Bracing herself against the wind, she followed him.

XV A HAPLESS FLY the great hall that had once belonged to the queen of Alba, Stronghand held court as winter winds blew a chill rain across the courtyard outside, visible through open doors.

'Bring the prisoners forward."

A captain herded the captives up before the dais, adults and children all together, a pack of ragged fugitives. They had been living no better than animals out in the woods when a patrol had stumbled across their stick hovels and crude tents and rounded them up. Winter had rendered them too weak to fight and now the presence of his dogs, eager to kill, made them too scared to run away.

They huddled together in such a trembling mass that it was difficult to distinguish one from another. Their clothes hung in tatters; their emaciated bodies gave them the look of cattle better slaughtered for soup bones than left out to graze winter pastures, where they would only die and their carcasses be gnawed by wolves.

But these Alban folk had not died, or at least not all of them had. Daily his troops captured such refugees, folk who had escaped the fall of the city or who had fled the nearby farms which had once fed the town. While his strike forces searched and harried the countryside beyond the reach of the Temes River, he had a different task.

He beckoned to his interpreter, a Hessi merchant's son named Yeshu. Like a well-trained dog, he approached without fear.

'Discover what manner of people these are," he told him.

The Hessi merchants taught their children many languages, the better to follow the trade routes. Yeshu spoke his tortured mother tongue as well as Alban, Wendish, and Salian.

'They are artisans, my lord, so they say," he replied after an interrogation of the eldest woman. "According to their report, they fled the city and hid in the forest lands. Half of them have died so far this winter, so they claim."

'What kind of artisans?"

'Carpenters and turners, my lord."

He glanced around the great hall, crudely refurbished after the battle fought last autumn but in need of good craftsmen to restore it. "Are they kin to each other? Of one tribe?"

'Out of two clans and three houses, my lord." He wore a cap out of which black locks straggled. His dusky skin stood in marked contrast to the fair-skinned, light-haired Albans. "This is what they tell me: They came together in their flight because some of their kinfolk married between them, as is the custom of Alban artisans."

'Woodworkers," he mused, looking them over. They were a sorry lot, and many might still die no matter what mercy he showed them, but that they had survived for so long and stuck together in numbers, to protect themselves, suggested intelligence and practicality. A tool may look worn and almost broken yet may still be fixable. Useful.

There was more than one way to conquer a country.

'Let them be given grain and such salt as they need for the remainder of the winter. They will be left in peace to ply their trade as long as they reestablish themselves in their home and put themselves to such tasks as they are accustomed to. They will give me labor in exchange for my protection. This hall needs rebuilding. The doors do not shut properly. What tithe did the queen require of them?"

Another conversation ensued. The youth could bargain; since Stronghand could understand what Yeshu was saying to the Alban prisoners he understood that the elders of their house, despite the seeming hopelessness of their condition, hoped to convince the lad that the Alban queen took less of a tithe than he knew she normally did based on the testimony of other prisoners and the Hessi merchants with whom he had established trading relationships.

'Enough," he said at last, in Wendish. Even the Hessi lad did not yet suspect that he understood the Alban speech. In truth, he was surprised he understood it at all, but ever since the return of Alain, the speech of all creatures seemed eerily open to him, as though the all-encompassing wisdom and sight of the OldMothers had infested his mortal, crippled blood. "If they argue, then they do not wish to tell the truth. One day in three will be their tithe. If they are faithful, they can earn the privilege that those loyal to my rule enjoy of one in six. Tell them to return to their home and rebuild."

This mercy they had not expected. Weeping and wailing, they threw themselves down before him to offer obeisance, but he knew he could not trust them. To show his displeasure he chose the healthiest looking child from their group to send to Mother Ursuline at Rikin Fjord as an acolyte. He cared little for the quarrels between the gods of the Alban tree sorcerers and the circle god esteemed by the Wendish, but the adherents of the circle god were more useful to him, especially while the tree sorcerers remained his adversaries.

As the prisoners were herded away, he stroked the wooden circle that he wore around his neck. While he mused, his councillors maintained a respectful silence: the chieftains of Hakonin, Vitningsey, Ja-tharin, and Isa, Papa Otto, and Samiel, the Hessi merchant he had appointed as his steward because he knew how to read, write, and figure numbers.

'Woodworkers can also build a bridge upstream, where the river narrows. That will make our task easier. When spring comes, and they have finished the hall, let them work one day out of four on this task."

'Yes, my lord."

Out in the courtyard, a scouting party jogged into view.

'Let them through."

His herald-one of his littermates-called them up.

The captain among them-one of Hakonin's sons-gave the report: they had ridden south and west following the winding course of the Temes River. One fortlet they had burned, three skirmishes fought with no men killed. There were two substantial towns, both fortified although, in truth, they could be taken with a sufficiently large force. Of the Alban queen they had seen no sign.

Stronghand turned to his councillors. "Of the eight parties sent out, six have returned. None have found any trace of the queen. We await news from the north."

'We should strike now at the towns we can plunder," said Vit-ningsey's chief, called Dogkiller.

'We should strike where our blows will have the most effect and not waste ourselves seeking treasure," said Hakonin's chief, called Flint.

'These prisoners are a burden," continued Dogkiller. "If we killed them, we would be free to seek farther afield for their queen and their riches. What do you say, Ironclaw?"

'I say nothing," said Isa's chieftain. "I am still waiting to see whether Rikin's son flies, or falls."

Jatharin's chief remained silent, as he usually did.

Stronghand nodded at Papa Otto, who had learned over time that his master preferred his counsel to his silence. "If you defeat the Alban queen, then you can become ruler in her stead. But as long as she or any of her lineage remain alive and free and allied with the tree sorcerers, the Alban people will fight behind her banner and for her heathen gods. Strike at their gods, and you will win Alba."

'Kill the Alban people, and there will be no one left to fight you," said Dogkiller.

Papa Otto shook his head. "Kill the Alban people and the land will become wasteland, worth less to you than the good crops farmers can grow to feed artisans and soldiers."

Stronghand rose, surveying the court he had gathered around him: councillors, RockChildren eager to gain glory and gold, human men willing to serve a better master than the one they had left behind, slaves, prisoners, and the doubters, like Ironclaw, who were waiting for him to falter so that they could wrest from him what he had so far gained.

But even Ironclaw, who was wiser than most, did not fully understand Stronghand's purpose and methods.

'We will wait until we have heard from the north. Our forces will continue to sweep the countryside until all the land three days' walk on every side of Hefenfelthe is under our control. Burn what you must, but build where you can. A burned house is not a strong house; it cannot hold off rain, storm, and wind. Let the priests of the circle god follow in your wake and walk among the Alban folk."

So it would be done. He sat, shaking his staff; it clacked softly, bells chiming, as he beckoned to his herald.

'Bring the next group forward. Are there any farmers among them?"

There were.

Satisfied, he sent this starving and pathetic group back to their farms with seed corn and enough grain to last through winter and early spring. He dispensed justice while morning passed, the rain stopped, and the sky cleared, although the wind still cut wickedly into the hall, leaving the humans shivering. The carpenters would have much to repair.

Recently more and more prisoners had fallen into his hands, not all unwillingly. It was easy enough to let rumor do its work for him and to allow Alban scouts sent from parties hiding in the woodlands to penetrate the lines of defense around Hefenfelthe and see for themselves the increasing activity in the city. To see their countryfolk hard at work, fed, and alive.

QUEEN's Grave.

The words had an ominous sound, but the rolling hills and countryside they walked through with their escort before and behind them seemed pretty enough to Ivar despite the winter chill.

'Pretty enough for a graveyard," said Ermanrich, observing the leafless orchard trees and the shriveled gardens of the most recent village they passed by. Folk came out of their houses to watch them pass, but said nothing. They whispered, gesturing to the banner that marked this party as Lady Sabella's men-at-arms.

'They don't like us," whispered Hathumod.

'Or they don't like Lady Sabella," muttered Ivar. "Don't despair."

'Not yet, anyway," said Ermanrich.

'Look," said Sigfrid, pointing down the road. "That's a palisade. It looks like a fort."

As they came closer to a prominent ridgeline, they saw where the log wall closed in a narrow valley's mouth. A makeshift camp with barracks, tents, and a small number of cottages lay outside the palisade beside a stream. A few men loitered there, staring-soldiers by the look of them. A woman came to the door of one of the cottages, pulling a tunic on over her grimy shift, and grinned as they marched past.

'Hey, there! Handsome!" It wasn't clear whether she was talking to the prisoners or their escort. A man emerged beside her, slapped her on the bottom, and went out, whistling.

'What's this?" he called to his fellows. "A new crop of sparrows to clap into the cage? A brace of lads and a boy! That'll put the cats in among the pigeons!" He whooped.

A surly captain met them at the gates, herded them inside, and sent their escort packing without even offering them ale to wet their throats before setting off again into the chilly day on their way back to Autun.

'We were ten days on the road!" protested young Erkanwulf, who'd been given charge of the expedition by Captain Ulric. "Can't we at least spend the night and dry our clothes before heading back?"

'Get!" snarled the captain. "No one's allowed to bide here except those guards assigned to my command. That's by order of Her Highness, Lady Sabella."

Erkanwulf scowled, glanced at the prisoners, and with a shrug of frustration ordered his men to depart.

'That's that, then," said the captain, closing the gates so as to leave the four of them on one side and the captain and his guardsmen on the other.

'Hey!" called Ivar from inside the palisade, where they'd been abandoned. "What about us?"

The bar slammed into place. They were locked in. He turned. They stood at one end of a well-tended valley with several fields, a pasture dotted with sheep, an orchard, a stream, and a compound of buildings.

'This is a very old convent, an early foundation," said Sigfrid, studying the layout of the buildings. "Do you see? It's laid out in the old style."

'What old style?" asked Ermanrich.

'Before the reforms of St. Benedicta and the elaborate plans of the Brothers of St. Galle created a new ideal for the construction and layout of monastic foundations. Quedlinhame and Herford were laid out in the new style. This isn't. Perhaps this was a villa in the time of the old Dariyan Empire, refurbished as a convent. But I think it's more likely the architect built it in imitation of Dariyan villas. Not all the details are right. See how the drains-"

'Why would you build a villa to be a prison?" asked Hathumod.

'Hush," said Ivar.

A very pretty girl approached them, eyeing them warily. "Who are you?" she demanded. "We got no message saying anyone was coming. What do you want?"

Ivar stepped forward. "We've been sent here by Lady Sabella to join your convent."

'Have you?" She tossed her head; the movement made her scarf slip halfway back on her head. She had black curls so astonishingly lustrous that all three youths stared at them, then remembered that they were novices and she a holy nun, sworn to the service of God. She snorted, smiling at their discomfiture. Hathumod stared at her admiringly. "Come."

The main compound was built as a square with an inner courtyard placed in the center. Guards stood watch at double doors, but the black-haired girl ignored them, opened one door, and ushered her charges into the suite of rooms beyond.

'Your Grace! Biscop Constance!" She had a piercing voice and was not afraid to use it. "We have new sheep. Do you think they're spies for the usurper?"

A silver-haired woman sat at a writing desk, an older lady by the hunch of her shoulders and the color of her hair. Ivar looked around the chamber hoping to see the biscop, whom he remembered well from the trial at Autun-young and glorious and handsome as befitted a daughter of the royal house. An elderly nun came into the room, stopped, and frowned.

'Sister Bona!" said the nun, chiding the girl who had led them in. "You must ask permission before you come charging in here-"

'Nay, let her be," said the woman at the desk. Laboriously, favoring one shoulder and one leg, she turned. "Give me my staff, if you will."

Ivar gasped.

Biscop Constance smiled wryly. She was still a handsome woman, vibrant with command, but she had aged thirty years. When she rose, when Bona leaped forward to help her, Ivar saw why. She could barely walk. She had sustained some kind of massive injuries, although he dared not ask how.

'Sit, I pray you," she said patiently to her visitors. Bona helped her to the biscop's chair and Ivar, Sigfrid, Ermanrich, and Hathumod hastily knelt before her. She offered them her hand to kiss. They did so.

'They're spies!" insisted Bona.

'Are they? I'm not so sure I think they are. Sabella has never been a subtle chess player. I remember you, Ivar. You are son of Count Harl out of the North Mark. You gave testimony at the trial of Hugh of Austra. I admired your foolhardiness and your passion for justice although you by no means helped yourself that day. Indeed, as I recall, you vanished soon afterward and were presumed dead or lost or absconded together with Prince Ekkehard, my nephew."

He bowed his head in shame. "The last, Your Grace. It is nothing to boast about."

'Bona, bring wine and something to eat."

Bona flounced out but returned quickly with a tray. Half a dozen others arrived just as they had finishing telling the biscop their names and lineages. Constance chuckled to see her nuns crowd into the room.

'You see, my friends, you are a nine days' wonder. We live very quietly here at St. Asella's."

'I thought this place was called Queen's Grave," said Ivar.

'So it is. It was founded by the saintly queen Gertruda. She lived centuries ago. Her story is told in the chronicles of those times, that written by St. Gregoria of Tur. She was married against her wishes to a cruel king who was no proper Daisanite. In fact, he was a pagan or a heretic, as it suited him and his political needs of the moment. When he died, poisoned by a former wife, I think, Gertruda fled to this valley and founded the convent in honor of St. Asella."

'Who walled herself up alive," said Sigfrid, nodding to show he understood the lesson.

Constance smiled. "You have studied well, Brother Sigfrid. We need another scholar in our ranks, for my schola has grown thin this past year." The pain never left her; that was clear enough. But she possessed a quiet determination that would not let pain or defeat break her. She had retained a sense of humor, a subdued appreciation of irony. "Queen Gertruda took vows as a nun to escape the marriage her grasping relatives wished to force her into. In her cunning she created a refuge for other women, and a very few men, who also sought to escape forced marriage and instead devote themselves to God."

'It's too bad Baldwin didn't know about this place," muttered Er-manrich.

Ivar frowned. Shame flared and turned to anger. "He did!"

'Ah!" said Constance. "There's a story there. Well, then. You have an audience, for we hear nothing and see nothing. That is the fate of those interred in Queen's Grave-to be buried alive. We would like to find out what goes on in the world outside. Tell us your tale, I pray you."

T IN early spring, Alain stood knee-deep in muddy water, wielding a shovel. He and a dozen of his lay brothers drained a strip of marshland, extending the land and channeling away the standing water. The slap of watery earth tossed onto the margin made a soothing rhythm as the men alongside him sang.

"Out into the four corners of the world walked the blessed ones. Sing again their stories. '*'