The Tears of the Sun (80 page)

Striking at shoulders, elbows, wrists, like butchery in a nightmare abattoir where the flesh under the steel wouldn't
die
.

Then the head lay looking up, dangling from a flap of muscle and skin. The eyes were open and looking at her; Mary's spiteful, angry, blue eyes.

Cut
.

The head rolled free. Tiphaine knocked up her visor, went to one knee and set the sword point down, bracing herself on the hilt and dragging in one raw cold breath after another. It was a bad thing to do to a good sword, but it would have to go too. Her body was streaming sweat under the armor, but shivering with chill at the same time. Bits of hair and matter and skin spattered her armor and gauntlets, but the rain was still coming down. She turned her face up to its cleanness, let the water flow into her mouth, spat, did it again.

Stratson came to her. “My lady?” he asked.

He looked more like a horse than ever, his long yellow teeth bared by a grimace that pulled back his lips, his eyes wide opened and staring.

“Listen, she gets cremated tonight and everything with her.”

He nodded, the whites of his eyes showing. “I thought you might, m'lady. Got things going while you were busy.”

He signaled, and men came forward with barrels of the wood-alcohol mix used for lanterns; others dragged out a hose connected to the biogas plant, and still others made a chain to bring wood from the sheds that kept it more-or-less dry.

“Should I also . . . burn the room?”

“Probably. Spit, blood, hair, anything. Don't touch
anything
with your bare hands. I'm going to strip when I'm done and we'll burn even my armor and sword. It's a good thing my Associate's dagger is in my saddlebags. I'd burn that too if I'd been wearing it, and it's a gift from the Lady Regent.”

The rain came down, but the wind was easing off. The prison guards rigged tarps to cover the soggy yard that sloped down to the swamp. One of them came forward with a torch and looked at her. She nodded curtly.

Whump!
The alcohol caught, and then the wood below it as the heat drove out moisture and the gas played across it like a dragon's breath. More wood, more barrels of alcohol, blue and red flames soaring up. Men came bearing the contents of the cell, handling them with gingerly reluctance and heavy gloves.

“What about this?” asked Stratson, showing her the white altar cloth. He grasped one corner and cursed.

“What!”

“This!” A needle dangled from the leather gauntlet he wore. Tiphaine pulled the alcohol lamp closer. “Did it touch you?”

“No; but the whole cloth is run through and through with needles!”

She frowned down at it. “Put it down on the bed, strip the glove, make sure not to drop the needle and put it on top. The mattress is a bag of cornhusks, right? Over a rope webbing?”

“Yes.” Stratson did as he was told and eased back as Tiphaine carefully studied the length of cloth draped over the little bed. Needles twinkled in the waving flames.

“That sewing box of hers, too,” he said. “It was set just so on the little table and it fell over. We caught it in time, but the boxes of pins opened up. Fortunately they all fell
in
not out, but still . . . When did she have time to set this up?”

Tiphaine shook her head. “Shovels, oil . . . it's going to be a long night.”

Then she looked at the spread of cloth and studied the designs; the odd symbology seemed to make her eyes slide along faster and faster . . .

She wrenched her gaze away.
No, I don't think I'll take this along for study.

“Throw it on. All of it.”

“Got some priests,” Stratson said. “There's a hermitage in the woods. They come over and hear confessions and say Mass. Your page had someone run for them, smart kid.”

Tiphaine realized he had an entourage, standing at a slight distance. Five of them were wearing habits, brown Dominican robes. The one who came forward wore the bright red cincture of the Hounds of God, which she hadn't seen in many years. Tiphaine bared her teeth, but the man raised a hand, palm-out to her. It was impossible to tell his age, but she thought the lines in his face were those of suffering as much as age.

“Peace, sister. Peace. After Pope Leo died, we were disbanded by orders of the Lady Regent. Bishop Maxwell tracked us down several years ago. All of us have had training in detecting the enemy's works. We have stayed disbanded; but at the orders and service of the secular authorities. Thus we do penance.”

Tiphaine growled.
That's unexpected! Did Sandra know? But, if they are now on the side of the Angels . . . we need a few doughty warriors in the spiritual realm.

“You've got me at a disadvantage, Father . . .”

“Lucien Blat. I am at your orders. What can we do?”

Stratson interrupted. “Tell me what will make this safe!” he demanded.

And Tiphaine found herself sharing a sympathetic glance with a Hound of God. The irony bit.

“What is . . . who is . . . what can you tell me?”

Tiphaine looked around and realized the priest hadn't overheard her conversation. Tersely she explained, and was reassured and oddly disturbed when the priest simply nodded acknowledgement.

Oh, damn. This sort of story is
credible
now. It's good that he believes the truth but the truth is so Not Good.

“I think that we need to hallow and sanctify this land,” the cleric said thoughtfully. “And not bringing anybody vulnerable here sounds like a very good idea. In the future; I'm afraid I agree, this entire place should be destroyed and interdicted. Possibly burned over in the late summer when it dries out enough, for several years running.”

He turned and went to the other priests standing in the wind, as motionless as they might have been standing in the shade of an oak on a hot day, their hands tucked into the broad sleeves of their robes.

Disciplined,
Tiphaine thought with approval.

As Father Lucien turned back to her the three paced the precincts, waving censers and sprinkling water, praying and chanting. One stood and sang the “Kyrie Eleison.” His powerful baritone fought the wind and rain. The other four picked up the descant and response.

Father Lucien signed the cross before her.

Did I just feel something from my amulet? Damn, but I'm not used to this. I don't
like
it.

“Shall we pray for her soul?” he asked, between verses. “Christ died for us all. Even her.”

“I don't know. She was born in the Church. She turned apostate and traitor for personal power. Probably about ten years ago. I could say her soul was stolen from her. With her permission, I think, but still.”

“It's going to take a long time to reduce this to ashes,” observed Father Lucien. “I and my fellow priests will stay here, watch and make sure that all is consumed. And we will pray.”

Stratson cleared his throat. “Did you say you wanted to strip and bathe, Grand Constable?”

“Yes,” she said, and closed her eyes for an instant with a crushing weariness that made her bones ache. “Everything I have on goes on the fire. The bathwater to be poured out by the marsh; the towels on the fire.”

Father Lucien smiled at her. It was a small smile, and a bit tight. “Not taking any chances, I see, my lady Grand Constable.”

Tiphaine looked at her sword and sighed. She pitched it carefully into the center of the flames. It stood, quivering. Then she pulled off her helm and tossed it carefully to land at the foot of the blade, wincing as she thought of the cost of a new suit of plate armor. Stratson gave her reasonably knowledgeable assistance with the parts you simply couldn't handle yourself. She turned to Lucien as she pulled off her right gauntlet. The scar stood out, inflamed, with a white rope of scar tissue down the center.

“She did that to me in May. It nearly cost me my hand. All it took was her sucking one of her needles and running it down my hand. She didn't even scratch the flesh; just touched it.”

He looked carefully, but forbore to touch her. Then he nodded and strode forward, to stand by the cantor at the fire. By the time she had all the plate and mail off and was stripping the gambeson, tunic and trews, Stratson had all the men facing outwards.

The amulet was warm and comforting between her breasts.
This is probably a good thing to do.

“My lady.”

Father Lucien bowed before her and kept his eyes firmly over her left shoulder.

“Your page is inside with Father Manuel. They've prepared three baths for you. The boy has towels all warmed up and we really can't have our Grand Constable sick. And I assure you, we are taking extreme care. We will hold the vigil and not let even a spark or scrap get loose.”

He frowned up at the security block. “I'm going to insist, as hard as I can, that the whole building be burned. Burned, exorcised, then let nature cleanse it for generations.”

Tiphaine looked at him.
I am finding myself thinking good thoughts about a former Inquisitor. The world is a very strange place.

“You are probably right. I'll speak to the Lady Regent and strongly recommend that we do so. God knows we're broke, with the war, and we will be for years to come. But this . . . needs doing.”

Countess Ermentrude looked at her husband. When he nodded confirmation, she pulled the night-robe around her more closely and shivered.

“
That
was what you fought?” she asked him. “Or something even
worse
? Merciful mother of
God
, Felipe!”

Tiphaine held out her glass. “Rigobert, do the honors, would you? That isn't my favorite memory and I have some . . . doozies.”

He poured from the decanter he'd moved to within arm's reach. She drank again, ignoring the quiet speech in the background while she let the smooth fire of the brandy relax the knot in her gut.

Felipe set down his own snifter, rose and bowed, the full formal gesture.

“My lady d'Ath, House Arminger and the Protectorate are very well served in their Grand Constable. House Artos and the High Kingdom of Montival will be as well.”

“It needed doing, your grace,” she said with a shrug. “I was there, and I did it.”

He exchanged another glance with his wife.

“My lady Grand Constable, I cannot repay your aid with gifts, but I would give you one, if I might, as a symbol of our regard and a pledge of future friendship between our Houses. We spoke of my hunting lodge of
High Halleck
, in the mountains—my mother had it built and named it.”

Tiphaine inclined her head. “I was thinking just a little earlier of asking for the loan of it,” she said. “When the war is over.”

He shook his head. “Not a loan. I . . . we would gift it to you, my lady, lodge and land and forest right. In free socage, not asking vassalage, of course.”

Tiphaine put down the brandy snifter and made her mouth not drop open. House de Aguirre didn't do things by halves!

She stood and bowed in return. “My lord, my lady, my office forbids that I accept such a gift in my own person.”

Felipe began to frown slightly, but Ermentrude touched his sleeve and spoke, “But you have an heir, I believe, Lady d'Ath?”

“Yes. My adopted son, Diomede. Born to Lord Rigobert and his wife Lady Delia.”

“Second son,” Rigobert said helpfully.

Which gave a perfectly reasonable excuse for his welcoming a son taking the name of another House; it solved the inheritance problem rather neatly. Arrangements of that sort weren't at all uncommon, where a fief-holder had no heir of the body.

Count Felipe's face cleared, and he beamed. “Which enables me to express my gratitude to you both,” he said. “I must insist.”

Gisarme-butts stamped in the corridor outside. Rigobert opened the door, and the Mother Superior of the Walla Walla abbey swept in. She made a curtsy: “My lord Count?” she said. “I came as quickly as possible.”

Tiphaine stood. “I leave you in very capable hands, your Grace,” she said.

She and de Stafford shook the nobleman's hand and bowed over Ermentrude's.

“And that is that,” she murmured, as they walked back through the family quarters.

Bewildered work crews were already tearing up the bloodstained parquetry. The Baron of Forest Grove nodded approval.

“Except for winning the war, of course,” he said. “And now we have to manage a fighting retreat for the High King.”