The Gathering Storm

by Kate Elliott

  “What are these?” Hugh touched a pair of golden antlers that lay on either side of her grinning skull. “Riches! Best we make no mention of this, Zacharias. I see no need to rob the dead. Let her lie in peace.” He leaned forward, still on his knees. “Here, what’s this?”

  He reached past her to lift a crude obsidian mirror off the dirt; despite the passage of years, its glossy surface still caught the lamplight and flashed sparks into the concealed depths of the chamber. Where shadows moved.

  They walk out of the alcoves, ancient queens whose eyes have the glint of knives.

  Zacharias yelped in terror, stumbled, and dropped to his knees into a clot of rotting garments that crumbled beneath his hands. His lamp spilled to the floor, guttering as oil leaked onto the dirt.

  “Don’t be frightened, Zacharias,” said Hugh kindly as he lifted the mirror and with an expression of amazement and a clever grin directed light along the walls and up at the ceiling by using the mirror to reflect it. “Of course. Of course, What if she was one of the ancient ones, a mathematicus? What if she used a mirror to capture the light of the stars? Why did Anne never think of this?”

  The oil spilled over the ground caught fire and blazed up, and by this light Zacharias discovered himself wrist-deep in a heap of decayed clothing and rusted mail, the remains of a leather belt curled under his fingers and turning to dust as he stared. The fading outlines of a black lion exactly like those worn by the King’s Lions rested a hand’s breadth below his weeping eyes.

  “Who’s there?” said Hugh sharply, raising his lamp.

  A chill breath of air coiled around them and the fires went out.

  There are three of them. They are angry at this intrusion, but they are also intrigued by the exceptional beauty of the one who desecrates their tomb. They have not quite yet forgotten the memory of life that sustains their spirit. They have not quite yet forgotten the sweet perfume of the meadow flowers that bloom in the spring.

  Zacharias lost all sense of up and down, and he fell, but only smashed his face into the bundle of clothing that dissolved all at once into nothing until, when he took a coughing, wheezing breath, it was as if he inhaled all the dust of what had once lain there, sucked up into his mouth and lungs.

  The blackness chokes him. Salt water bubbles against his eyes and lips, popping in his nostrils. His lungs hurt, but he keeps swimming although the tunnel is entirely drowned. If he goes too far, he will not have enough air in his lungs to swim back, yet what difference does it make? Where else can he go? Without memory, he is dead anyway.

  He is like the skrolin, trapped in a cul-de-sac whose tunnels only take him around in circles. He must go forward to free himself as well as them.

  His lungs burn. His head slams into the ceiling, his fingers scrabble against rough walls, and his feet push along rock as he thrusts forward and all at once comes flailing to the surface. He drags himself out into air and lies spewing with his lungs on fire and his eyes stinging and the world hazing to darkness.

  Agony slices through his body as a cold hand brushes the top of his head and an icy finger tugs on his ear as if to drag him back into the water.

  He was no longer lying half in and half out of water but rather on the dusty remains of the burial chamber.

  A dry voice whispers through his mind. “He has already been claimed.”

  Zacharias recognizes them; they are his grandmother’s gods, the young Huntress, bright and sharp, the Bounteous One, and the Old Woman, toothless with age.

  “I fear you,” he whimpers, although he cannot truly speak. He says the words in his mind, and they hear him. “You are the gods my grandmother worshiped. She was loyal to you.”

  “The days when we ruled on Earth are long forgotten. Our power has faded.”

  “I remember you!”

  “You remember us. You are our grandson.”

  He weeps, feeling their affectionate touch. Where his tears meld with the dust, the earth speaks to him in a voice as heavy as stone, reaching him through the ancient ones who linger within the tomb.

  Can. You. Hear. Us?. Are. You. The. One. We. Seek? Help. Us.

  “I hear you. I will help you. Tell me what to do.” His lips and his mind form the words although the breath that escapes him is little more than a rising and falling of vowel sounds, not real words at all.

  The earth replies not with sound but with its voice throbbing up through his head.

  Listen. Wait. You. Are. Not. The. One. We. Seek. But. We. May. Have. Need. Of. You. The. Crown. Can. You. Reach. And. Touch. The. Crown?

  “I can.”

  Light flared. Hugh cursed.

  “Damn it. There must be a hidden opening somewhere, to let in a breeze like that. Zacharias! For God’s sake, man, get up off the floor. Is the lamp ruined? And broken, too.” His shoulders heaved as he sighed. “Well, no matter. I’ll take this mirror. We’ll leave the rest undisturbed.”

  With some difficulty because of the pain still cutting through his body, Zacharias pushed himself up to hands and knees and, as Hugh’s light bobbed away down the tunnel, to his feet. He bent to pick up the fallen lamp and such a wave of dizziness and disorientation swept him that he moaned.

  Hugh’s lamp stopped. There was silence.

  From this distance and angle Zacharias could only see Hugh’s face framed by the wavering light, golden and beautiful and utterly frightening. The presbyter studied him a moment more, then turned his back.

  “Come quickly. I’ve no wish to linger. There’s nothing here of interest.”

  The ancient queens waited in the shadows, but they did not advance, only watched. He tingled all over, staggered, dizzy. Hurting. Changed.

  Hugh had seen and heard nothing. He had allies that Hugh knew nothing of, that Hugh could not combat.

  “Zacharias?”

  All his life Zacharias had struggled to keep silence, to speak prudently or not at all. All his life he had failed at this task. He had cast away his faith in God, turned his back on the Lord and Lady, on his kinfolk, and on the calling that had taken him into the east and slavery years ago. He had walked as a beggar through the world, starved for sustenance, fearful and cowardly. He had no words, he had lost his tongue, yet he had been changed utterly.

  All the fear was gone. Vanished.

  “Go, grandson,” the queens whispered as they faded into the tomb. “Return to us when you can.”

  He would return. He would sneak back into the tomb somehow, risking Hugh’s wrath. The queens waited for him, and a nameless ally needed his help.

  “Zacharias!”

  That tone had once had the power to make him choke with fear. Now he only smiled to himself and, after a last glance around, followed Hugh into the light.

  4

  “THE Word is the surest sign of God’s grace,” Sigfrid said to his audience, who were seated on the sloping grass with hoods and shawls pulled up over their heads to protect them from the glare of the afternoon sun. “Only with words can we speak to others and bring them into the light. Is it not true that those who do not believe are, as the blessed Daisan says, ‘the prey of every fear because they know nothing for certain’?”

  Several heads nodded. Ermanrich sidled to the left to get into the shade creeping out over the hollow where the community gathered.

  “When the elements mingled and were corrupted by darkness, it was the voice of God, the Word of Thought, that separated darkness out from the others and propelled it into the depths where it naturally belongs. Because it was the Word that gave birth to this world, it is our words that give birth to the community of believers on Earth.”

  “Tell us the story of the phoenix and the miracle, Brother Sigfrid!” cried one of the novices. “Tell how God restored your tongue!”

  The others begged Sigfrid to tell the story yet again, although in the last year and a half he had told it a hundred times. Because Ivar stood at the back of the crowd, he easily slipped away and climbed out of the gentle amphitheater composed by the
natural contours of the ground. Here the inhabitants of the cloister assembled on fine days to discuss the Holy Book and the ineffable mystery of God as well as the more tangible acts of humankind which had confined them in this prison.

  At times like this, he just felt so unspeakably weary.

  The amphitheater stood at the limit of the grounds, which were measured on one side by the rocky ridge that closed off the northern end of the vale, ringed to the east and west by a straggling line of forest and the steep slopes of hills, and opening to the south on a vista that looked up the vale over the buildings and fields of the cloister to the palisade. He shaded his eyes to peer into the distance. The estate had turned gold, with only a few greens to relieve the pallor. It had been a hot, dry summer, and the crops had suffered because of it. Dust smeared the sky beyond the palisade. Someone was coming, horsemen and perhaps wagons, if he judged the height and density of the cloud correctly.

  He left Sigfrid and his listeners and jogged along the track that led past fields of seared wheat and rye and the withering vegetable gardens to the central compound. He trotted past the weaving hall and took advantage of the shady porch fronting the infirmary to cool his head before cutting across the last strip of open ground to reach the main compound.

  The audience chamber lay empty, so he crossed it and walked out onto the portico that faced the inner courtyard. The fountain—a playful trio of dancing bears—had long since run dry, and buckets had to be hauled in every day to keep the herb bed and the roses watered. The grave post dedicated to poor Sister Bona had been freshly whitewashed; her ivory Circle dangled from a nail hammered into the wooden post. It had been over one year since her death, and yet the memory of that awful day remained as vivid as if it had happened last week—the first shock of it, like a punch in the belly, transformed into a numb ache.

  One nun knelt among the herbs, weeding. The other attended the biscop, who sat in the shade at her writing desk, which had been moved out onto the portico because of the extreme heat.

  Constance looked up, hearing Ivar’s footsteps, and extended a hand to greet him warmly. “What brings you here to me, Brother Ivar? You have deserted the company at the very hour when your discussions may yield the ripest fruit.”

  He kissed her hand, then dropped to his knees before her. “Someone is coming, Your Grace. I saw a cloud of dust as I stood outside the amphitheater.”

  “Ah.” She smiled softly.

  “I am anxious, Your Grace. I fear this cloud brings ill news.”

  “It may be, but we can do nothing to prevent its arrival. Go to the gate, if you will, and see what comes our way. I will wait in the audience chamber.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Sister Eligia, I pray you, assist me.” The young woman hastened to Constance’s side, offering her the walking stick, supporting her arm, and helping her negotiate out from behind the desk.

  “Do not hesitate to go before me, Brother,” said Constance. “The community has more need of legs than my royal honor, which has not served us well these past two years.”

  He sketched a bow and hurried out through the chamber, hearing the scrape of her ruined leg against pavement and the tap of her stick as she moved one laborious step at a time off the portico. He rapped on the door. The guards opened it, looked him up and down, then let him through. The door thudded shut behind him.

  He was free—they all were except the biscop—to walk where he willed within the confines of the palisade. He strode down the track that led past the sheep pasture and the bramble fields where the goats made their home, arriving at the closed gates at the same time as the new arrivals. Harness jingled and a man cursed a recalcitrant mule. A pair of dogs barked. A woman laughed as the captain called down jovial curses from the parapet as a greeting for the soldiers come to relieve the last crop of guards.

  “… bastard whoresons. It’s quiet enough, I grant you, but all we have to amuse ourselves is dicing. There aren’t even any fine ladies in want of swiving in the village, for they’ve sworn to have nothing to do with us on account of they’ve been corrupted by the prisoner and her lying words. You’ll be wishing yourself off at the wars after a few days stuck here!”

  “You must not have seen any fighting if you think battle is preferable to a quiet backwater like this.”

  “I’ve seen fighting enough!”

  “You must be Captain Tammus. We’ve heard of your loyal service to Lady Sabella.”

  “It’s true enough she can’t trust every man who offers her service just because she has gold and swords, but I’ve long pledged my loyalty to her. She knows the worth of my oath. I’ve these scars and this stump to prove it. Who are you?”

  “Captain Ulric, of Autun.”

  “Ah. Yes, Captain, I recall you now.”

  “I’ve brought relief for the men on guard here. I also have a message for the biscop.”

  “Very well. Your men can leave the wagons here and choose accommodations in our camp—which you see is decent enough, warm in the winter and lots of wood and water, although the river is running low this year. I’ll have my guards cart the goods into the cloister. Your men will need to know the lay of the land before they begin their guard duties. As for now, I’ll escort you to the biscop myself.”

  “Very good.”

  When the gates swung in, Ivar concealed himself behind a stack of empty barrels and crates as a dozen soldiers escorting two wagons trundled past bearing the usual offerings of salt, oil, and candles. He recognized the name “Ulric” from that unlucky day he and the others had entered Autun expecting to be tried for heresy and instead were sent off to smother in this cloister, their lives spared because of Baldwin’s sacrifice.

  Perhaps Captain Ulric had news of Baldwin.

  He followed the wagon to the compound, then tagged along as Captain Ulric, Tammus, and two attendants walked to the biscop’s audience chamber. Captain Tammus cherished the same surly frown he always wore, which went well with his belligerent stride and coarse language. He had indeed suffered horrific injuries in his lady’s service, although Ivar didn’t know what battles he had fought in: he was missing one hand and one eye, and nasty scars twisted across the right side of his face. In contrast, Ulric was a middle-aged man with a pleasant face, easy to look at, tall and well built with the bowlegged walk common to cavalrymen. His cheeks and nose were burned red and peeling, but the faces of his attendants were shrouded by the hoods they’d pulled up to shade themselves from the hot sun.

  Ivar slipped into the audience chamber and stood along the back wall, unnoticed except by the biscop, of course, and by Captain Ulric, who glanced back as the door was shut on them and marked Ivar with a widening of the eyes and a stiffness in his expression.

  He doesn’t trust me.

  Why should he?

  Ivar had been named as Sabella’s enemy, and Captain Ulric served her, or Duke Conrad, who was her ally. Even Gerulf and Dedi had vanished into Conrad’s army; he had heard no word of them in eighteen months, just as he had no knowledge of Baldwin’s whereabouts and whether he suffered or flourished under Sabella’s care.

  “You may come forward, Captain,” said Constance kindly, “and kiss my ring.”

  Tammus bent the merest angle, just enough not to insult her outright, and kissed her ring, although he sneered as he glanced back to invite Ulric to come forward. The cavalryman knelt before her chair and bent his head respectfully. Were those tears in his eyes? From this distance it was impossible for Ivar to tell, and Captain Ulric blinked, rose, and retreated, coughing behind his hand either because of dust in the room or to cover a strong emotion.

  Ivar felt a swirl of dangerous currents at work in the chamber, but he couldn’t identify their locus or the shifting eddy of these tides. He leaned against the wall, pretending to an ease he did not possess.

  “What news, Captain?” Constance asked.

  “I bring word from Lady Sabella. She means to visit you within the next fortnight.”

  �
�Ah.” By no means could any person read Constance’s reaction. She nodded, hands curled lightly over the arms of her chair, seeming relaxed. Or resigned.

  “There’ll be a great deal to be made ready,” said Captain Tammus. “We’ll have to deplete our stores to feed her retinue. The village near here hasn’t any grain stores left to them, and it’s not harvest yet.”

  “Harvest this year will not yield much,” replied the biscop. “You’ve seen the fields.”

  “I’ll have to send men out hunting again. We’ll take half a dozen sheep from your flock.”

  Constance nodded, although she knew as well as Ivar did that their flock was sorely depleted. None of the ewes had birthed twins this spring, a sign, Sister Nanthild said, of drought to come, and indeed drought and unusually hot weather had afflicted them. What rains had come had arrived untimely, and in one drenching flood that had washed sprouts out of dusty fields, churned them into muddy lakes, and then hardened the land into cracked earth when the sun returned to beat on them as a hammer flattened red-hot iron on the anvil.

  “It will be good for Lady Sabella to see the conditions of the lands hereabout, which have suffered greatly over the last winter and into this summer,” she said. “Is there any other message, Captain?”

  “That is all, Your Grace. Otherwise, as you know, I am under orders to make no communication with you or any of those residing under your care.”

  “I understand the terms of my confinement well enough. It seems a long journey to come here all this way merely to bring me a single message.”

  He looked at Tammus before risking further comment. “I have escorted a new complement of guardsmen to replace the levy that has been here for three months.”

  “Will you replace Captain Tammus?”

  Tammus snorted.

  Ulric shrugged. “Nay, Your Grace. Lady Sabella has named him as your keeper. So he will remain as he has served well and faithfully these past two years.”