The Gathering Storm
“What I wish to trade?” Sanglant leaned against the wall. The heat of the sun washed his face, the swell of wind tugged at his hair. “Which of those is the mother of Bulkezu? Do you know?”
“They are the mother of Bulkezu,” agreed Gyasi, nodding toward the troop of women and their winged escort.
Sanglant glanced at Breschius, but the frater shrugged. It was hard to tell how well Gyasi understood Wendish. “I cannot trade Bulkezu. I have defeated him in battle and kept him alive in exchange for a chance to win his freedom. I need him to guide my army safely through the grasslands and lead us to the lands where we may hunt griffins and meet sorcerers.”
“Is this what you truly wish, great lord? It is a troublesome road. Many troubles will kiss you.”
“This is what I truly wish. I cannot give up Bulkezu. Yet what bargain might I strike with his tribe, so that they will not hinder me?”
Gyasi hummed to himself in a singsong manner, a man pondering deep thoughts. “People are tricky. One man may promise life to his brother and after this stab him in the back.”
“There are those who are still angry that you allowed Bulkezu to survive the battle whole and healthy my lord prince,” said Breschius. “I do not forget that he was the one responsible for Prince Bayan’s death. Neither does Princess Sapientia.”
“Yet you ride with me, Brother Breschius.”
“As does Princess Sapientia. Yet I do not think she had much choice in the matter, although she is the heir.”
“Is she? King Henry has other children. He has a child by Queen Adelheid, do not forget, whom he may favor. Why do you remain with me, Brother Breschius? Whom do you serve?”
“I serve the truth, my lord prince, and God.”
Breschius’ smile brought light to his face. He was a man too humble to be in love with his own cleverness but too wise to denigrate himself. “Whatever risk you may pose, my lord prince, I believe we are in more danger from those who seek to wield sorcery without constraint than from your ambition.”
“I pray you, my lord prince,” said Hathui, who had remained silent until now. “I would object to Bulkezu returning to his tribe. He has never paid what he owes me for the damage he did to my person.”
Sanglant turned back to the Quman shaman. “Tell the boy all I have said and say also that there is one among my servants who has a personal grievance against Bulkezu, who stole her honor and harmed her body. She seeks recompense. For these reasons, we will not release him. Yet we do not seek war with his people. Once I have my griffins and have met my sorcerers, Bulkezu can go free. Until then, perhaps they will consider a truce.”
Gyasi relayed the offer, and the messenger gave a shout of acknowledgment before returning to the troop. They watched him pull up beside the rank of women. After some time, the boy returned with two riders beside him, one of whom wore a tall, conical hat sheathed in gold plates, dazzling in the sun, and draped with bright orange-and-ivory beads strung together like falling curtains of color. Her tunic was bright blue, cut away at knee length and slit for riding, and beneath it she wore striped trousers of blue and green with beads sewn around the knee and the ankle. Beneath the weight of her garments he could barely make out her face, dark, unsmiling, with broad cheekbones and pale lips. The other rider was also a woman, but she wore only a soft felt hat, drab and unornamented, against the sun, and a plain leather tunic with loose trousers underneath. Her hair had the golden brown sheen of a westerner or a hill-woman; surely she was no Quman, most likely a slave if the thick bronze bracelets on either wrist indicated her status.
The boy delivered his message and, once he had done speaking, tossed a cloth bundle onto the ground. Wings of cloth spread to reveal a dozen gold necklaces.
“What does he say?” demanded Sanglant.
“The gold, to pay for honor stolen.”
Hathui’s eyes widened as she leaned over the brick rampart, staring at the bounty of gold lying below. “I accept!” she said breathlessly. “God Above! I can dower my nephews and nieces with such riches!”
“And the two women?” Sanglant asked.
Gyasi scratched the tattoo of the eight-legged horse and its rider decorating his scrawny chest. The rider wore a conical hat like those of the mothers, but its features showed no markedly female cast. He hummed and mumbled to himself, bobbing his head and hopping on one foot like a nervous crow. At last, he spoke. “The mother will see Bulkezu before she negotiate further. That way she can see if he are truly living, and not dead.”