Trommler gripped his sleeve. "My lord, look."
Felix wiped his eyes.
"Look," urged Trommler. "The White Tower."
A cold spark, blue-white and intense, was descending from the peak of the mountain. It was so bright that it shone through the trees and picked out the new green leaves, as if the moon itself had descended to Midgard and was coming to meet them.
He checked in the sky, an involuntary movement: the horns of the crescent moon were still wheeling towards the western horizon. He watched the light, neglecting to follow the course of his father's pyre that was still aflame mid-river.
"Eckhardt," he whispered; then, to Trommler: "What are we going to do?"
"It depends what he wants ..." started the chamberlain, but Felix shook his head firmly.
"No. We know what he wants. He's just fed up with waiting." He found his hand dropping to his belt. "Wherever the signore is, we need to stop Eckhardt now."
"You have to get to safety, my lord." Trommler spread his arms wide and started to usher him back. "Guards! To arms!"
"Mr Trommler, I am the Prince of Carinthia. If I have to do this myself, alone, then that's what I'll do." He hauled his sword out and held it aloft. "To me, Carinthians. To me!"
Trommler tried one last time. "My lord, now is not the time for bravery."
Felix disagreed. "Now is always the time for bravery. Get my stepmother and her children back to the fortress. Go, Mr Trommler, go."
The first by his side was Earl Hentschel. "A hexmaster?"
"The last," said Felix.
"But I thought the magic had gone."
"Almost gone."
"Isn't that wonderful news?"
"Wond ...? No. You don't understand. This isn't good."
"But the Order has always been for us, my lord." Hentschel was jostled by one of the castle guard, whom he pushed roughly away. "Watch where you're going, man."
"My lord Hentschel, I've learnt today that the Order has always been for itself. As for Master Eckhardt, he's become a necromancer. Do you know what that means?"
The funeral barge kept moving with the current: it was past the city wall, beyond the houses on the north bank. Its light was dwindling, the flames settling to a deep red glow, while the sharp, uncomfortable light coming from Eckhardt was growing.
People began to move.
The crowd on the quay on the far side started to thin as they chose to meet Eckhardt coming down. Those on the southern wharf had to cross the bridge to join them. They numbered thousands, and no militia would be likely to hold them back.
"We have to hurry," said Felix. "We have to get to him first."
The press of bodies was like a rising flood, slow, strong and irresistible. Those who'd formed the funeral procession were forced across the bridge, and those servants that Trommler had dressed up as guards didn't know what to do.
Felix couldn't control them. He'd lost contact with the earls, and Reinhardt was somewhere else, somewhere he couldn't see. Some of the guards broke and ran. Others lowered their spear-points and tried to hold their ground.
A trained man would have known what was going to happen, but Felix only realised too late. The order to pull back died in his mouth, just as the first of the crowd, frantically trying to evade the lowered spears, was shoved forward.
They screamed, and the guard let go of the haft, scrambling backwards, but there wasn't enough room for the impaled man to fall. The spear-haft waggled onwards.
In that moment, the guards became frantic, and the crowd became a mob.
Felix found his voice. "Off the bridge. Off the bridge." He lifted his sword again, and led the running, stumbling retreat to the relative safety of the far quay. The fight midstream was over by the time he looked, and the people of Juvavum were pouring noisily over the stone bridge and up towards the blue star that appeared to have settled on the road to the novices' house.
His father's pyre was now invisible either sent to the bottom of the river and extinguished or around the bend and out of sight. The only light was the cold glow created by Eckhardt, and Felix realised he simply couldn't compete.
He could hear what they were saying. "He can bring the magic back."
What was left of his retinue gathered around him, no more than a dozen men. He couldn't tell in the dark who was there, and who had been swept away, or consumed by madness, or caught up in the mob. But despite them being mostly pot-carriers and door-openers, they closed around him and did their best to shelter him.
It had taken three days for his rule to be overthrown. Three days for rioters to chase him off the streets. Three days of dark nights, no water, no transport, no ploughs or mills or grindstones or lathes to turn calm, law-abiding Carinthians into a disorderly rabble who'd follow the merest hint of an enchantment. Even as his father's body burnt, they'd lost their reason.
"My lord." It was a familiar voice in his ear: Reinhardt. "We have to retreat to the fortress. We have to go now."
The bridge was almost clear.
Felix pushed out between adult shoulders to see better. "Where's my stepmother? Where're the earls? Where's Ulf?"
"They've gone, my lord." Reinhardt had lost his helmet, and his grey hair was black in the night. "Please, I beg you. The fortress, while we still can."
"Gone? Gone where?"
Reinhardt shrugged helplessly. "They're just gone."
What was he going to do? He was responsible for everyone and everything within his lands, and yet he'd spent those three days curled up into a ball feeling sorry for himself.
Maybe he deserved to lose the palatinate. But perhaps there was something he could still do. Being a twelve-year-old orphan simply wasn't an excuse any more.
"We can't stay here. We'll go to the ... the Town Hall." It was at the other end of the bridge, and perhaps some of Messinger's militia had made it back there. "If anyone tries to stop you, get them out of the way, hit them, kill them if you have to. We have to go together: follow me."
He strode from the shadows by the bridge and started back across the river.
39.
Sophia watched it all happen from Messinger's office: everything, from solemn procession to final chaos, as the lights on the bridge winked out one by one until there were none left. After that, there was only roaring noise.
The light from the White Tower shone out, steady and bewitching, illuminating the flanks of Goat Mountain. It reflected on the faces of the people drawn towards it, faint scratches of blue against the dark.
Downstairs from the office, all was silent. The front doors had opened once or twice, and footsteps had tapped against the tiles, but if anyone was still there, they were staying determinedly quiet, presumably to avoid attracting attention.
Below, out on the quay, the last of the crowd hurried over the bridge. Sophia, suddenly realising how conspicuous she must be a candlestick with three burning candles sat on the table behind her, framing her silhouette in the rectangle of the open windows stepped to one side.
The prince, and his whole party, seemed to have been swallowed up. Messinger was nowhere, the militia had melted away. She'd read enough histories to know what was coming next.
Her people were at prayer. She was not. They had lit their Sabbath candles; she had not. They had recited kiddush; she had not. They were at the synagogue, and she was not. It was a sin for her not to be there, and yet HaShem had chosen her to be a prophet, and had conspired for her to be here instead.
She took another look out of the window, and she could see nothing that might stop her leaving. All the same, it was better, she decided, to be prepared. There were two spathae mounted across each other on the wall, their hilts and points protruding from behind the leather-covered auxilia shield they were displayed with. She drew up a chair, stepped up, and lifted the shield free.
Sophia had never held a sword before. She didn't know what it would feel like, or how to wield it without slicing her own leg off. She'd just have to learn as she went.
Both swords were polished bright. Even though they appeared merely ceremonial, and were far removed from what she imagined battle-ready blades should look like, she hoped that they were the genuine article. She wrapped her hand around the grip of the leftmost sword and pulled it free of the bracket.
She had imagined it heavier, that the point would drag down towards the floor. Instead, it fitted her neatly and sat up keenly. It might have been a presentation piece, but it was no toy.
She climbed down off the chair and levelled the spatha at the door, sighting down it. It was perfectly straight, and the candlelight dripped off it like butter. HaShem had provided again. She felt like Deborah.
She glanced up at the other one, and regretted having to leave it, as well as the many other weapons on the walls. She opened the door a crack and listened. It was still quiet, so she wedged the chair in the gap and scooped up the candlestick to light her way.
There was the upper gallery, the staircase and the hall to negotiate. The wood creaked as she walked across it there was no way it would not so she speeded up, flitting down the first flight and turning the corner for the second, holding the sword down by her side, but ready.
She paused. The candlelight barely reached the bottom of the stairs, let alone the deeper recesses of the entrance. She didn't even know if the bundle of clothes she'd stashed were still there. Not that it was important any more. There were, she knew, other people in the building, but she hoped they wouldn't try to prevent her from leaving.
Sophia was halfway to the double front doors when their wood shuddered. A moment later, the latch rose, snicking loudly against its stay. She blew out the candles and spun away, just before a door was flung open, and a gaggle of people burst in. Crouching down in an alcove, she waited, not daring to breathe. The door banged shut again.
Someone coughed. Others wheezed and gasped. Then a voice.
"Is there no one else here? Mr Trommler? Mother? Master Messinger?"
She knew who that was. She uncoiled in the dark. "I don't know where they are, my lord."
He knew her voice, too, despite the gasps. "Sophia?"
She stepped closer to him. "Someone came in a little while ago, but I don't know where they've gone. No one came upstairs."
"Eckhardt's out there."
"I know."
"I have to try and kill him."
"My lord, it's too late-" objected one of his men.
"No. I refuse to accept that."
Her hands were full, candlestick and sword. She knelt down and put the candlestick on the floor, then reached out. She found his bound-up shoulder, and moved up to rest her palm on his cheek.
"Felix, whatever you do now, it's too late for the Jews. We have to run, and quickly. When your German subjects cross the bridge again, it'll be for one thing and one thing only."
"It won't happen," he said fiercely. "I won't let it happen."
"You know it will. Without us being here, you might have a chance to restore some sort of order come the morning." She put her hand behind his head and pulled him to her. "With us here, we're all dead."
She held him for a moment, then pushed him away.
"I can protect you," insisted the prince.
"You might be able to protect me. But you can't protect us all."
Felix didn't answer for a moment. He sheathed his sword with a long metallic slide, and let out a series of grunts and grimaces. Then he found her hand and pressed something into it.
"What are you doing?" she asked. "I have to go."
"That's my father's ring. It's my ring now. Get everyone you can and go to the fortress. You'll be safe there."
"The ..." The thought simply hadn't occurred to her. Princes simply didn't make that kind of gesture.
"If I have to, I'll hold them at the bridge. Ring the bell in the Bell Tower, and I'll know you're safe. Reinhardt: take the rest of the men back to the Chastity Gate and make sure the Jews are let in."
"My ... lord?"
"Just do it, man! That's an order."
"Thank you," Sophia said. She was already breathless, ahead of all the running she'd have to do.
"Open the door," said Felix, and it inched back open. "Good luck."
She crept outside, and the first thing she did was to check on the light coming from across the river. It seemed steady enough, except that there was a glow around it, as if a fog was rising. Whether it was just the collective breath of thousands, or something more sinister, she couldn't tell. But there was no baying mob yet.
Felix's ring was too big for any of her fingers. She jammed it on her right thumb, working it painfully over the joint. It felt cold and heavy, and since she never wore jewellery, odd and obvious.
She ran back along the quayside and up into the town, taking the narrow cut that led to the Old Market. The moonlight illuminated only half the square and, as she darted into the shadows towards the start of Jews' Alley, she ran headlong into someone, something.
They fell and she fell. Sophia was on her back, trying to tell which way was up, when the sky darkened and metal glittered. Without thinking, she brought the sword up, expecting to do no more than bat her assailant away. Such was the force of her swing and the length of the blade that the point sliced through something significantly more substantial.
She heard a single bellow of pain, and the shape above her fell all over again. This time, it didn't get up.
The man it sounded like a man, and smelt like a man groaned deep in his throat. He'd landed partially across Sophia's legs: she dragged one free and kicked him away. He groaned again, more quietly.
She couldn't see what she'd done, who it was, or tell anything about him. She didn't know what to think, even. Had he been going to attack her, or had she just wounded, or killed, an innocent man?
She scrambled to her feet, and the sword dragged along the ground for a moment before she remembered to lift it. It seemed welded to her arm, something to cling to. "Sorry," she stammered, "I'll send help." She ran the length of Jews' Alley: the candles in the windows lit her way, and she could see that there was no one else around.
She'd grown up in streets that were never dark, thanks to the same magic she'd been taught to reject. Now she knew the truth of the cost of it, she was glad, but she still missed the light.
The synagogue doors were still closed: she'd arrived in time. She crashed through the first set, into the porch where the stairs went up to the women's balcony, and instinctively turned to climb them.