The sea breeze was light. Through the thin morning mist, the towers of a coastal port city rose faintly in the distance. A round-bellied ship with a square sail cut across the waters of the Adriatic: a cog, a northern hull design brought south by the Normans of Sicily, long since adapted to the Mediterranean and widely used for trade.

A poor monk in a rough white linen habit, clutching a wooden crucifix, was preaching to the crew and passengers gathered around him.

"Jerusalem! The jewel between Heaven and earth. A city of the world, magnificent beyond words. A city of Heaven, glorious beyond measure. Jerusalem, a holy place, now lies encircled by the swords of ambitious infidels.

"The Ayyubids and the Sassanids: two monstrous powers, despicable devils both. They tear down the Lord's churches. They kindle their blasphemous 'sacred fire' upon the holy altar. They profane the Heavenly Father. They slaughter our brothers in Christ, drag them in chains, sell them on the block. Pilgrims on the road to Asia Minor are ambushed by the Turkic horsemen these beasts keep on a leash, savaged, imprisoned, butchered.

"They would burn the Holy Sepulchre itself! They would devour our earthly Kingdom of Heaven: Jerusalem! This, neither Catholic nor Orthodox can suffer to stand. Take up your weapons! Destroy the infidel! Go to that land the Scriptures call 'flowing with milk and honey'; go and atone for your sins, and you shall know the eternal glory of Heaven!"

"Amen!" "The Heavenly Father wills it!"

Lothar stood among the crowd in his crimson surcoat, Hans, Laine, and Modell around him, his face arranged in devotion.

He had never been a Catholic. Never believed in any god at all. But this was a world of real supernatural forces. Perhaps the so-called Heavenly Father truly existed. In that case, a little faith couldn't hurt. So long as it didn't get in his way, he would remain very "pious."

One day, when his strength was full-grown, he would have no qualms about asking the same question as a certain General Joseph: "The Pope? How many divisions does he have?" Of course, in this era, His Holiness did have many divisions. The Papal States held vast direct domains across the central Italian peninsula, and every archdiocese was in theory subject to Rome. Unless absolutely necessary, even at full power, Lothar had no wish to make an enemy of the Pope.

They had boarded that afternoon, after rising early to make the ride from the northern Veneto town down to the port. Barely two hours out, and the castles of Romagna were still visible on the coastline.

The monk suddenly pointed into the crowd: at Lothar. "Lothar von Habsburg! A valiant knight of Swabia! He defied that blasphemer King Henry and set forth to defend the Holy Land! It is devotion to the Heavenly Father and His Holiness the Pope that drives him! May the Heavenly Father keep you, honored knight!"

Since the Pope had excommunicated Emperor Henry, many clergy refused to acknowledge the papal crown placed on his head. Thus they addressed Henry merely as "King."

The passengers turned reverent eyes on Lothar. "Bless you, honored knight."

The monk smiled broadly and beckoned. "Sir Lothar! Please, a few words. The people need your inspiration."

Lothar's expression tightened. Unlike the People's Crusade, more famine refugees than army, the passengers aboard this cog were reasonably prosperous: town artisans, market traders. They shared his destination: the Holy Land, answering His Holiness's call to Crusade. He didn't want to lie to them. But the crowd's fervent cheers made it impossible to refuse.

He thought for a long moment before speaking. "This is a great undertaking. For the Heavenly Father. So that the Holy Land shall not be profaned by the infidel. Even should we fall—our souls shall ascend to Heaven."

"Yes! The fallen shall ascend to Heaven—and the living shall know glory!" The monk resumed his thundering sermon. And Lothar, as a "pious" crusader knight, had no excuse to stop listening: especially with the monk fervently praising his name, spreading his reputation. The new followers now looked at him with eyes full of loyalty and awe. In an age where faith was woven into the fabric of life itself, even if it was only a mask, he had to wear the mask of the devout.

Two hooded women sat in the passenger cabin. One tall. One small. Neither acknowledged the other.

Fringilla could bear it no longer. "This is so boring. Big Stiff, why does our lord have to stand there listening to that old man drone on and on?"

Prajna raised her eyes and fixed Fringilla with a stare entirely devoid of warmth. She held it until Fringilla felt a chill creeping across her skin. Then she went back to sitting motionless on the plank bed.

"Hey. Prajna. Are you a machine? Don't you ever get bored?" Fringilla kicked her dangling legs idly. "You are truly a woman without charm. If you ever end up with the lord, you'll drive him mad inside a week."

Prajna's brow furrowed. Emotion rippled faintly across her face. "What nonsense are you talking?"

"Ha! You answered!" Fringilla wore the grin of a fox who'd found her way into the henhouse. "I knew it. You do have feelings for the lord. You scheming woman. But let me tell you—it's impossible. Though your chest is big, and your rear is big, and your waist is thin, and your skin is flawless, and your face is beautiful..." She ticked each point off on her fingers, then stopped, blinking. "Wait. You awful woman, you have that many good points? Uh-oh. Maybe it's not impossible after all."

The corner of Prajna's mouth pressed tight. Her face remained still as still water. "What exactly are you trying to say?"

Fringilla lifted her chin, all smiles. "Whatever the Blood Court's history with you: that's their business. Not mine. Prajna, as the lord said, we'll be comrades soon. Battle-sisters. Covering each other's backs. I don't want things to be sour between us."

Prajna frowned. "To me, duty is duty and personal feeling is personal feeling. No matter how much I may despise you, I will give nothing less than my full effort in battle. You need not worry. And you certainly need not flatter me."

Fringilla's lips curved with sly delight. "Prajna. You really do have feelings for the lord. And if you do: going on like this won't get you anywhere."

"Hah. You think saying that will make me blush like some common mortal girl?" Prajna's face was stone. "What I feel for our lord is only what a comrade and a vassal ought to feel. Nothing of the kind you imply."

"Really? I don't believe you." Fringilla's voice was singsong with teasing.

"Whether you believe it or not is irrelevant." Prajna closed her eyes. This time, she was truly silent.

Fringilla smiled the smile of a fox who had stolen a chicken. If Prajna truly didn't care at all, she would never have taken the bait in the first place. But then a pang of urgency followed. The lord should be mine. I can't let you, you oni woman, steal him first.