It was Vindicadus, once Hugh’s servant. Sanglant had not expected to hear a challenge so soon.

Liath smiled, but her look was grim. “I have met shades while traveling through the deep forest. They are not tales. Their elf shot killed my horse. And drove off bandits.”

Among the sergeants there came a flurry of movement. A white-haired man pushed forward into the ranks of the captains. “Let me speak!” he cried. “I have served with Prince Sanglant. He himself freed me and my four men from Salavii merchants who had captured us and meant to sell us into the east.”

“What’s your name?” asked Liath.

“This is Gotfrid,” said Sanglant, before the old soldier could answer. “I recall you from Machteburg. What is it you have to say, Sergeant?”

“Just this.” He surveyed the assembly with the hard gaze of a man who has seen enough that he no longer fears the disapproval of others. “I and ray men—we survived the attack of Lost Ones. We saw our comrades fall beneath the sting of their darts. If you doubt the lady, then I pray you, answer me how I could have seen them as well. Two of my men are still with me. They will tell as well, if you ask, what they saw.”

“What of the other two?” Sanglant asked, knowing the answer because he had already heard the tale.

The man gestured with his hand, a flick, as dismissal. His throat and chin tightened.

Folk murmured, but it was hard to tell who they believed.

“Is there anyone else here who wishes to speak about the existence of the Lost Ones?” asked Liath.

No one did. The heckler had vanished back into the crowd. Sanglant could, in a manner of speaking, smell that he still lingered, and he wondered what twisted loyalty held the man to Hugh of Austra. Liath was already going on.

“As centuries passed, the story of the great spell was lost until it became nothing more than legend. The Ashioi came to be known as the Aoi, the Lost Ones. The knowledge used to weave the spell was lost also, because, I believe, all seven of the sorcerers who wove it were killed in the backlash from the spell.”

A murmur followed this statement, quickly stilled.

“Perhaps they left no apprentices to carry on their learning, although that would surprise me.”

“Perhaps those who were left behind chose to forget,” said Sister Elsebet. “What the church has condemned must be immoral.”

“This was before the time of the blessed Daisan,” said Liath. “They would not have been able to follow the rulings of the church.”

“They might have known in their hearts that it was wrong,” retorted the cleric.

Liath nodded amiably. “There are many possible answers. Perhaps their apprentices were too inexperienced, or too secretive, or too horrified to pass on the knowledge. Perhaps they were told not to. We’ll never know, since we have no way of asking.”

“I pray you, Lady Liathano,” said Duchess Liutgard with a doubting smile, “how can you tell us this knowledge was lost when you stand here before us branded as a mathematicus yourself? The Holy Mother Anne boasted of her sorcery, and taught these arts openly in the skopal palace these last two or three years.”