Child of Flame (Page 257)

“Sorcery,” he replied with satisfaction, as though she had answered him.

Maybe she had.

He whistled sharply. After a bit his shaman, Cherbu, trotted up on a piebald mare whose blotched coat bore a vague resemblance to the patchwork cloak and trousers worn by its rider. The two men exchanged a few words, after which the shaman dismounted, got down on his hands and knees, and proceeded to sniff like a dog, following an unseen trail through the ruins. Bulkezu followed him on horseback, singing in that irritating nasal tone the Quman used for their favorite songs to entertain himself as he waited. Hanna recognized a song he had once translated for her:

“Has anyone suffered so much misfortune as I have?

Who pities the orphan, or the little bird that falls from its abandoned nest?

It would be better to be dead than motherless.

But fate has already played this song.

If my mother rose from her sickbed and kissed me now, it still wouldn’t bring me any joy.”

He paused. The shaman had vanished. Hanna looked around wildly, but she saw no trace of Cherbu or his patchwork cloak among the fallen beams and barren ground. The noises from camp, below them, seemed suddenly faint, shrouded. A cloud had covered the sun, granting respite from its glare, yet a thin line of light slithered through the wreckage like a snake.

An owl hooted. White flashed off to one side, and Hanna turned in time to see a huge owl settle onto the highest wall of the burned chapel.

“I’m here,” she whispered, wondering if will alone, chiseled to a point and flung outward on a thought, would be enough to alert the owl to her presence among the Quman.

It raised its wings once, like a salute.

One of the guards drew, aiming an arrow at the huge bird, but Bulkezu spoke three soft words.

A billowing cloud of ash blew up from the ruins, making Hanna’s eyes sting. She blinked rapidly, shielded her eyes with a hand, and when she dared look again, the owl was gone. The shaman, coated with a white layer of ash over his patchwork clothing, stood in the midst of the ruined barracks where five Lions had died.

“There,” said Bulkezu. “That’s where the fire started. He can taste it, you know.”

“Taste what?”

“Magic.”

“Why does he follow you, if he’s so powerful? What do you give him to make him ride so far?”

Bulkezu laughed. God have mercy, how she had come to hate that laugh. “Cherbu is my brother. Our mother commanded him to serve me. Are you Wendish so uncivilized that you would disobey your own mother? It’s true, isn’t it, that you fight among yourselves more than you fight anyone else.”

This struck him with such force that his laughter redoubled and he actually had to wipe tears from his eyes.

While she stewed, stoking her anger, she watched Cherbu pick through rotting planks and leaning wooden pillars singed by smoke and flame. Cold cinders crumbled under his hands as he marked a patch of ground with soot, then stamped around in a curious dance, singing in a reedy voice that occasionally slipped low.

Until a word she knew well slipped out of his throat, strangely accented but impossible to ignore.

“Liathano.”

She started, betraying herself. Bulkezu whistled. Cherbu shook himself, slapped the ground, and returned, humming under his breath. He had a habit of regarding his listeners out of one eye, tilting his head to the side like a bird. Bulkezu questioned him at length, but the shaman replied in short phrases and finally shrugged, ending the conversation.

“Where is she gone, this Liathano?” Bulkezu demanded with a frown, turning to Hanna. “My brother says she is a female, but that he can’t smell her out. Where is she gone?”

At last Hanna smiled, letting anger bloom. “Why should I tell you?”

Her cool defiance provoked him; easy to see, when his nostrils flared like that and his horse shifted nervously under him, catching his mood. But his wrath only made her more stubborn. She stared him down as his dimple flashed, as he laughed but stroked the hair of his trophy head instead, almost caressing it. His brother spoke to him, glancing once at Hanna, and Bulkezu jerked as if he’d been struck. Without a word, he reined his horse around and rode down to camp. The set of his shoulders betrayed his rage. Half his guards followed him. The other half remained behind, watching with blank expressions.

But Hanna laughed, flushed with the satisfaction of having finally won a single, tiny victory.

Cherbu clucked his tongue, shaking his head from side to side so that his earrings swayed. When he spoke, although she couldn’t understand the words, the tone could just as well have been her mother scolding Hanna and her two brothers if they whispered during Mass: “You know better than that…”