Child of Flame (Page 272)

That edged smile did not waver. Bayan’s lips ticked up, briefly, as if in a spasm of anger, but he did not lose control. “I will not ask you to bow your noble head, even to me, although by right you ought to. But if our armies will join, then there can be only one commander. That one must be Sapientia.”

“God have mercy, Bayan, let’s not mince words, if you insist. That one may be Sapientia in name, but it will be you in fact. As it is now.”

“So, how does this trouble you? You will have as much chance to influence her as I do, will you not?”

Sanglant laughed harshly. “I’m not sleeping in her bed, God forgive me for suggesting such a thing.”

“Bowing the head is not easy to learn, so I admit. Then let us here agree to defeat Bulkezu together. We go our separate ways after. Sapientia also is Margrave of Eastfall, I think you remember. When she becomes queen, I can persuade her to grant the margraviate of Eastfall into your care. I want Bulkezu dead. I want to drive the Quman back east where they belong. And so do you, Sanglant. If you did not, you would not be here now.” They had reached the end of the horse lines and crossed now, by unspoken consent, toward the first line of sentries. “But I do not forget your Wendish pride.”

“Nor your own damned Ungrian conceit.”

“Henry accepted Ungria’s offer, not Salia’s. Thus did he choose a consort for to marry his eldest legitimate child.”

The night air had finally cleared the cobwebs from his mind. He halted, tipping back his head to watch as clouds swirled over the face of the moon, hiding it again. “I never had a child before,” he said softly.

“Now do you understand me?” Bayan stood beside him, also watching the moon as it slipped free of the cloud cover, a trembling light drifting hazily behind misty streamers of night haze. “A child of my blood will ascend to the throne of Wendar and Varre. Beware what words you teach your small daughter, Prince Sanglant. The great Emperor Taillefer has been dead for a long time. His power fled with him to the grave. But few, I think, forget the noble feast he presided over. Be cautious, I pray you, in parading a child who has learned to say those sweet-smelling words, ‘I am the heir of Emperor Taillefer.’ The wolves are always hungry.”

3

POOR Lord Manegold, vain and shallow, had to carry Bulkezu’s standard when they rode down from their position on the ridgetop to the parley. He looked like he’d rather be dead, no matter how many encouraging words Ekkehard muttered privately to him before the prince was escorted away to wait nervously with an honor guard close around him, just to make sure he didn’t attempt to escape.

The negotiations for the parley had taken an excruciating day conducted first through scouts, then through emissaries sent from camp to fort and back again with various demands, offers, and compromises.

Bulkezu went in full battle array, wings gleaming in the steady summer sunlight. He descended from the ridge with one hundred picked riders at his back, Lord Manegold at the front holding up his standard, and Hanna beside him, her hands bound to make it clear she was his prisoner. Boso had dressed himself in the richest clothing he could scavenge, and he looked as ridiculous as a dog fitted out in a lord’s cloak and jewels, trotting along at his master’s heels.

Midway between the ridgeline and the outer palisade of the fort stood a large pavilion, sides raised up like wings to let the breeze through, the neutral ground on which both parties would meet. A force of one hundred mounted men waited beyond the pavilion.

Princess Theophanu had already arrived. Her face was as expressive as the blank mask-visor on Bulkezu’s helmet. Only the crease of her mouth held a gleam of emotion, difficult to interpret, as they approached over the grass and crossed into the shade afforded by the raised wings of the tent.

The princess had Henry’s cunning. Seated in a chair almost as elaborately carved as her father’s traveling throne, she allowed Bulkezu to come before her as though he were a supplicant. Duke Conrad the Black fidgeted at her back with the same kind of restless energy Prince Sanglant had, a man who would rather be fighting than standing. There were, besides them, two noble companions in attendance, a richly-dressed girl of ten or twelve years of age who stood behind an empty chair placed next to Theophanu’s, and three stewards ready to serve goblets of wine.

Bulkezu’s riders halted the precise distance back from the pavilion as Theophanu’s cavalry waited in the other direction. He rode forward with Hanna and Boso to his left, three of his captains to his right, and Cherbu at his back. The wind moaned through the wings of his riders. Light rippled along iron coverts as the breeze coursed through his griffin wings, lifting a seductive melody into the air. He surveyed the positions of his troops, and of hers, the placement of her chair and of the one set ten paces away, facing her, that remained empty for him. With his helmet on, it was impossible to see his face. He looked back toward Cherbu, and the shaman made a sign with his hand, briefly noted. Satisfied, Bulkezu pulled off his helmet and tossed it to one of his captains, who caught it neatly and tucked it under his arm.