A lone figure stepped onto the empty shoreline and began a series of strange, capering gyrations silhouetted against the intense blue of Lake Khirzak.
“What is it?” Chrétien asked at length.
“He’s trying to trace the Steps of Sithonia. Her footprints are embedded in the rock, you see.” Now Rikard merely sounded tired. He removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. “No one’s ever succeeded. Still, they pay for the chance to try.” He replaced his hat. “Come on.”
Even in the simple act of walking, Rikard noticed, Chrétien elicited glances from the Vralian passersby. He moved—could not fail to move—with the unearthly grace of a D’Angeline prince, bred in the bone since Elua wandered the earth, and trained into the sinew from birth. The wide-brimmed hat, the plain shirt of white linen, the grey woolen trousers, rag-wrapped hilt of his sword, and worn boots could not disguise it.
“You should try the Steps,” Rikard said.
Chrétien shook his head. “Not I.”
A scant fifty yards from the shrine, half a dozen vendors had set up booths where they shamelessly hawked their wares. They paused before a table covered with crudely cast bronze ikons of St. Sithonia, ranging from the demure to the downright erotic. Chrétien picked up one of the latter and examined it.
“According to some legends, Sithonia was a novice at the Abbey St. Ekaterin. According to others,” Rikard said dryly, “she was a repentant prostitute. You should buy one. A souvenir.”
Chrétien shook his head again and placed the ikon of Sithonia back on the table, earning a glance of sharp annoyance from the vendor. Even as he set it down, a woman of middle years with a red kerchief tied about her head elbowed her way past him and seized the figurine.
“For aid in matters of love, madam.” Clad in the black robes of a priest, the vendor addressed her in unctuous tones. “For aid in matters of love, pray to St. Sithonia at sunrise and sunset for seven days.” He picked up a small stoppered vial, pulled out the stopper and wafted the bottle beneath the woman’s nose. “For best results, rub three drops of this upon the feet of Sithonia each time you pray. Attar of roses, all the way from Terre d’Ange.”
“No,” said Chrétien. Rikard, who had taken his arm, froze.
“Does the young lord profess expertise in matters of love or in matters of prayer?” the priest-vendor inquired, his voice taking on acidic edge. Chrétien plucked the bottle from his hand and sniffed the contents.
“Neither,” he said, handing the bottle back. “But this oil was never distilled in Terre d’Ange.”
“And how…?” the priest-vendor began, still acid; and then Chrétien tilted his head slightly so that sunlight pierced the shadow beneath the brim of his hat, illuminating his features. The vendor’s mouth ceased speaking and gaped.
“Chrétien!” Rikard hissed, dragging his friend away, indiscriminate of the jostling crowd.
As soon as they were in the clear, Chrétien shook him off and said abruptly, “I’m sorry.”
He sighed. “You know how it is with luxury items. The name alone adds half a florin to the price, true or no. It was the same in Tiberium, Angelicus.”
“One never gets used to hearing the name of one’s country taken in vain, that’s all.”
For a moment, Rikard said nothing.
Once, when they were all staggering-drunk, Chrétien had fallen into an argument with a Caerdicci rug merchant who insisted his wares were genuine D’Angeline. Chrétien had drawn his sword and slashed every rug in the shop into pieces no larger than a man’s palm. No one had dared lay a hand on him. It was forgiven, of course, because he was the Dauphin of Terre d’Ange and because his father’s bursar made good on the damages.
Rikard had never understood why he’d done it.
“I know what you mean,” he said now, “but never mind. Let’s see the shrine.” He plunged into the thickest of the throng then, forging a path through the vendors’ stalls until they had a clear view of the holy site.
The empty stretch of shore was cordoned off with twisted ropes of sun-faded velvet. Aside from the crowds, there was not much to see but the still blue water blazing under the white sun and the hummock of grey stone that lined the shore. A series of slight indentations, vaguely foot-sized and stained with a sanguine pigment, were impressed upon the barren rock.
“The Steps of Sithonia,” Rikard murmured in Chrétien’s ear. “Or mineral deposits. Take your pick.”