Chapter 6: The Wagons

Eskil Varnhelm met the wagons a mile below the Keep, where the north road ran between two walls of snow.

He rode alone, with six men a hundred paces behind him.

He had not slept, and the smell of the granary was still in his coat.

Twenty wagons stood in a line with white banners snapping on their poles.

Each one was loaded to the rails with sacks stamped with the Church's sun.

A litter stood at the head of the line.

The curtains opened, and the Saintess stepped down into the snow.

She wore a white gown and a white cloak, and she had not brought a single guard inside arm's reach of her.

Everything about it said she was unarmed.

"Your Grace," said Iolanthe Ferren, and curtsied. "I heard of the fire at the Keep. The Church could not sit by."

"The fire was last night," Eskil said. "You were on the road before it happened."

"A priest in Brenn sent word that a storm was coming and the granary was low."

"Did he."

Her pale eyes lifted, soft and wide.

"I only wish to help the Duchess," she said. "She was dear to me, once. Please tell her the wagons are hers."

Eskil sat his horse and looked down at her.

He had met many people who smiled while they lied.

Most of them smiled with their mouths, and she smiled with her whole face, which was worse.

"Why her name," he said.

"Because the North will not take bread from the Church of the capital," Iolanthe said gently. "But it will take it from its Duchess."

She put a gloved hand on his stirrup.

"I know it will be hard for her, here."

"She was raised for the Prince."