The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars #3)

The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars #3) Page 67

“Marriage is a holy sacrament,” observed Sanglant, “and not to be split asunder on a whim.”

“Marriage?” exclaimed Wolfhere, and for the breath of an instant, Sanglant had the satisfaction of seeing him look panicked. But Wolfhere was too old and wily to remain so for long. He recovered as quickly as an experienced soldier who has lost his footing in the midst of battle: with an aggressive stab. “Mind you, Liath, King Henry’s displeasure is not a thing to be undertaken lightly. He will refuse to recognize the marriage. He has passed judgment: that you serve in his Eagles or return to Hugh. Will he rule differently if you return claiming marriage to his favored son? Or will he wish to be rid of you? And if so, where can you flee, neither of you with kin to support you? Your mother is waiting for you, Liath.”

Sanglant recognized danger instantly. “Your mother?”

“I’ve given up more than you know, Wolfhere,” retorted Liath. “If I go to my mother, then I must leave the Eagles in any case. Why would Henry not object then? Only because he would not know and thus could not return me to Hugh? Is my reunion with my mother to be based on deceit? Why should I trust you?”

“Why should you trust Sanglant?” Wolfhere demanded.

But she only laughed, and her laughter made his heart sing with joy, although the words that came next were bitter and angry. “Because he’s no more capable of lying than are those dogs. Even Da lied to me. You lied to me, Wolfhere, and I wonder if my mother lied as well. If she had made any kind of effort to find us, wouldn’t he still be alive?”

A whiff of smoke rose on the breeze, some distant sparking fire that faded as Liath stared Wolfhere down, her expression as fierce as the king’s when he allowed himself to succumb to one of his famous wraths. But a kind of unearthly fire shone from her, something he could almost smell more than see, an uncanny, pure scent. Sanglant took hold of one of her wrists, and she, startled, glanced at him, then sighed. That scent burned in her, almost a living creature in its own right. Her skin seemed to steam with her anger.

Made humble before it, Wolfhere said only: “She must teach you, Liath. You know by now that you desperately need teaching.”

There was the danger. He saw the shadow of it flicker over her expression: she needed something he could not give her, and Wolfhere would use that need to sway her. But Sanglant had no intention of losing her again. “Wherever you need to go,” he said, “I will take you there.”

“What if your father objects?” Liath asked. “What if he won’t give you horses, or arms, or an escort?”

He laughed recklessly. “I don’t know. What does it matter what might happen—only what can, now, this night.”

“Bred and trained for war,” muttered Wolfhere, “with no thought beyond the current battle.”

She had a sharp flush on her cheeks and looked away from both of them, but he knew what she was thinking of. He found it hard not to think of it himself. He released her wrist abruptly. Suddenly his grasp on her seemed too much like Bloodheart’s iron collar, a means to force her to do what he wanted her to do rather than to let her make the choice. “It is true I have nothing to offer you by way of estates or income as part of the marriage agreement. It is true that my father will object. But he may also see reason when presented with a vow witnessed, legal, and binding. I am not the only man available to marry Princess Adelheid. Let my father object first, then we will see. We may both be set upon by bandits and killed before we can get back to Werlida to receive the king’s judgment! And I have other resources.”

“Such as?” asked Wolfhere, not without sarcasm.

“Where is my mother now, Wolfhere?” asked Liath, cutting him off.

But he remained stubbornly silent.

“You won’t tell me,” she said harshly.

“I can’t speak freely now.”

“Because of Sanglant?” She looked astounded.

“We are not always alone,” said Wolfhere cryptically, and as if in answer an owl suddenly glided into view. It came to rest quite boldly on an outstretched branch that jutted out over the road a few paces beyond Wolfhere’s horse. Could it be the same owl that had led her to the burning stone? It was certainly as large. Its sudden arrival set the dogs to yammering until the creature noiselessly launched itself into the air and vanished into the darkening forest. The trees and undergrowth turned to blue-gray as the late summer evening faded toward night.

When Wolfhere spoke again, it was with suppressed anger and a fierce intensity. “You must accept, Liath, that we are caught in greater currents than you understand—and until you do understand more fully, I must be circumspect.”