The Burning Stone

by Kate Elliott

  Baldwin flicked a fly away from his face as he considered the women riding at the front of the procession. “Do you suppose Margrave Judith will be lifted up to the Chamber of Light when she dies, or will she be flung into the Abyss?”

  At the vanguard rode some twenty guardsmen, soldiers fitted out in tabards sewn with a leaping panther. After them came Margrave Judith herself. She had a proud carriage, silvering hair, and a handsome profile marked in particular by a strong nose; she wore a tunic of the richest purple, a hue Ivar had never seen before and marveled at now, embroidered so cunningly with falcons stooping upon fleeing hares and panthers springing upon unsuspecting deer that at odd moments he thought he had glimpsed a real scene, not one caught by silk thread on linen. Riding beside the margrave, Tallia looked frail with her head bowed humbly and her shoulders curved as though under a great weight; she still dressed as simply as a novice, in a coarse robe with a shawl draped modestly over her head. Other attendants surrounded them, laughing and joking. Judith preferred women as companions; of the nobles, clerics, stewards, servants, grooms, carters, and humble slaves who attended her, almost all were female, with the exception of most of her soldiers and two elderly fraters who had served her mother before her. She rode at the head of a magnificent procession. Of the entourages Ivar had seen, only the king’s had been larger.

  “Why would such a powerful noble be flung into the pit?” Ivar replied finally. “Except that she is in error about the Holy Word and the truth of the blessed Daisan’s death and life. But that is the fault of the church, which denies the truth to those eager to hear the Holy Word. I suppose Margrave Judith will endow a convent at her death and the nuns there will pray for her soul every day. So why shouldn’t she ascend to the Chamber of Light, with so many nuns praying so devoutly for the care of her soul once she is dead?”

  Baldwin sighed expansively. “Then why should I bother to be good, if it only means that I’ll endure for eternity next to her in the Chamber of Light after I’m dead?”

  “Baldwin! Didn’t you listen at all to the lessons?” Ivar realized at that moment that Baldwin’s rapt attentive gaze, so often turned on Master Pursed-Lips, Brother Methodius, and their other teachers, might have all this time concealed his complete mental absence from their lessons. “In the Chamber of Light all of our earthly desires will be washed away in the glory of God’s gaze.”

  At that instant the margrave chanced to look back toward them. The gleam in her eyes caused poor Baldwin to look startled and abruptly shy, but unfortunately Baldwin’s modesty only highlighted the length of his eyelashes, the curve of his rosy cheeks, and the blush of his lips. The margrave smiled and returned her attention to her companions, who laughed uproariously at some comment she now made. Like a cat, she gained great pleasure in toying with the plump mouse she had snared.

  Ivar shuddered. “But there’s nothing you can do anyway,” he said to Baldwin.

  “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” A half-gulped-down sob choked out of Baldwin’s throat and was stifled. “At least you’re with me, Ivar.” He reached out and clasped Ivar’s hand tightly, almost crushing Ivar’s knuckles with the desperate strength of his grip.

  “For now.”

  “I’ll beg her to keep you by me,” said Baldwin fiercely, releasing Ivar’s hand. “You can be my attendant. Promise me you’ll stay with me, Ivar.” He turned the full force of those beautiful eyes on Ivar. Ivar flushed, felt the heat of it suffuse his face; that blush satisfied Baldwin, who first smiled softly at him and then glanced nervously toward the woman who now controlled his fate.

  That evening Ivar was allowed to pour wine at the margrave’s table. They had stopped for the night at a monastic estate, and Judith had commanded a fine feast. The margrave was in high spirits; the food was plentiful, the jesting so pointed that Baldwin could not take his gaze off the wooden trencher he shared with his bride. A poet who traveled with them performed “The Best of Songs,” appropriate for a wedding night.

  “Bring me into your chamber, O queen.

  I have eaten my bread and honey.

  I have drunk my wine.

  Eat, friends, and drink, until you are drunk with love.”

  One of Judith’s noble companions was questioning the elderly uncle, brother to Baldwin’s mother, whose presence had been necessary to pry Baldwin loose from the monastery: The old man had explained to Mother Scholastica in a quavering voice that the betrothal between Judith and Baldwin had been formally confirmed by oaths when Baldwin was thirteen; thus the covenant superseded Baldwin’s personal oath to the monastery.

  Now drunk, the uncle confided in Lady Adelinde. “But the margrave was still married then, when she saw the lad. Ai, well, if her husband hadn’t died fighting the Quman, no doubt she would have set him aside in Baldwin’s favor. He was of a good family but nothing as well-favored as the boy.”

  Adelinde only smiled. “And when Judith sees a man she wants, she will have him despite what the church says about cleaving only to one spouse. No doubt it was a good match for the family.”

  “Yes, indeed,” he agreed enthusiastically. “My sister saw how much she wanted the boy, so she drove a hard bargain and was able to expand her own holdings with several good estates.”

  Ai, God! Sold like a young bull at market. Ivar gulped the dregs of wine from the cup he was taking to refill. The wine burned his throat; his head was already swimming.

  “She’ll marry him tonight,” said the old uncle, nodding toward the bridal pair. Judith kept a firm hand on the wine cup she and Baldwin shared, making sure he did not drink too much, but she did not fawn over him or pay him an unseemly amount of attention. “And a biscop will sing a blessing over the marriage when we reach the king.”

  “Come, my beloved, let us go early to the vineyards.

  Let us see if the vine has budded or its blossom opened.”

  “You see, Adelinde,” said the margrave, calling Lady Adelinde’s attention away from Baldwin’s aged relative. “No flower should be plucked before it blooms, or we will never see it in its full flowering.” She indicated Baldwin who by this time was pink with embarrassment; yet like a flower under the hot gaze of the sun—and the abrupt attention of all the folk privileged to sit at the table with Margrave Judith—he did not wilt but rather flourished. But she had already turned her gaze elsewhere; she had a sudden and uncomfortable glint in her eyes. “Is that not so, Lady Tallia?”

  The young woman did not look up. She had not even eaten the bread off her plate, and at once Ivar felt guilty for having eaten and drunk so lustily. Her face was as pale as a dusting of snow on spring fields, her voice so soft that he could scarcely hear her reply. “‘If a woman were to offer for love the whole wealth of her house, it would be utterly scorned.’”

  This rebuke had no effect on Margrave Judith’s good cheer. “‘But my vineyard is mine to give,’” she retorted to hearty laughter, and then signaled to her waiting attendants. “Come. Now we shall retire.”

  “What?” exclaimed her companion with drunken joviality. “So soon after fetching him from the monastery? You raise horses aplenty in the east. Surely you know you break them in a bit at a time. You don’t just throw a saddle on them and ride them the first time you put a harness on them.”

  “I have been patient,” said Judith with a pleasant smile, but there was iron in her tone. She gestured to Baldwin to rise, and Ivar hastily followed him, since poor Baldwin had now gone as white as a burial shroud.

  In the bustle as they retreated from the hall Ivar found himself cornered by Judith’s noble companion, who was so flushed with drink that her hands had no more discretion than her wine-loosened tongue. “Do you have those freckles everywhere?” she demanded, and with a hand on his thigh seemed likely to pull up his robe to find out.

  “Nay, Adelinde.” Judith put herself between the woman and Ivar. “This boy is sworn to the church. He’s not even allowed to speak to women. I have pledged to see him safely to the monastery of St. Wala
ricus the Martyr. And that means safe in all parts.” Her glance touched Ivar, but in her case it was her disinterest in him that was tangible. He could have been a chair she moved aside. “Go on, boy. Attend my bridegroom to his night’s rest.”

  A chamber had been set aside for the margrave and her attendants. Several pallets had been set to one side on the floor; the bed, wide and soft, had a curtain hung about it like a shield. A breath of wind through open shutters stirred the curtain. Outside, twilight bled a buttery light into the room.

  Baldwin was shaking as Ivar helped him out of his sandals and leggings and fine tunic, leaving him in his undertunic. He washed his face and hands and then went to kneel beside the bed in an attitude of devout prayer, as blank of expression as a handsome marble statue.

  Judith arrived, flushed and full of energy. She was a good-sized woman, tall, stout, and strong. Baldwin was scarcely taller and, having all the slenderness of youth, seemed swallowed by her robust presence.

  At a signal from one of the servants, Ivar left Baldwin and retreated to a corner. At the table, one of Judith’s clerics chanted words over a strip of linen marked with letters—something in Dariyan that Ivar couldn’t make out, although it had the cadence of one of those homely spells used by parish deacons to drive out pests or heal the sick. The cleric soaked the linen in vinegar and then wrapped it up around a pebble. Now Ivar turned away modestly while Judith’s attendants flocked around her, undressing her. There was much giggling and whispering. A servingwoman drew the curtains shut. The other servants settled down on pallets or on the floor, but Ivar couldn’t sleep. Facing the corner, he sank down to bruised knees, clenched his eyes shut, and clasped his hands tightly in prayer.

  Even with his eyes squeezed shut, he couldn’t help but hear. The good margrave seemed to take an unconscionably long time about her task.

  His own body stirred in response to what he heard: a slip of cloth as bodies rolled, a grunt, a stifled chuckle, a sudden surprised gasp; a sigh. Ai, Lady protect him. He could imagine the man rousing, the woman opening, and whether his thoughts dwelt longest with bridegroom or bride he could not—must not—think on. His prayers fled from him like startled hares. He was sweating although it was not a particularly hot night.

  A few short gasps which he recognized as Baldwin—and it was finally over.

  He had held himself so tensely that to move made his muscles groan. Grimacing, he eased down onto the carpet that covered the wood floor, the only pallet granted him, and at last, wrung out by the ordeal, dozed off … only to be awakened much later in the night by the same thing.

  When they had finished once again, he could finally sleep, but he was haunted by terrible dreams. Surely the Enemy had sent a hundred grasping, pinching, teasing minions to taunt him with visions of Liath warm, willing, and close against him.

  In the morning only formalities remained. Judith presented her new husband with a traditional morning gift to celebrate the consummation of the marriage: a fine sword set in a jeweled scabbard; a silk tunic from Arethousa; a small ivory chest containing jeweled brooches and rings; and twelve nomias, gold coins minted in the Arethousan Empire. It was a handsome and impressive gift.

  Baldwin’s old uncle had brought a trifle for Baldwin to present to her in his turn, a gold bauble with bells hidden inside that tinkled when it was rolled along the floor.

  The marriage-price paid by Judith to his parents was more substantial but none of it movable wealth: He now could lay claim to several rich estates in Austra and Olsatia. That had all been agreed upon five years before, and it was only a formality to read the charters now.

  They left the estate late in the morning. Judith rode ahead with her attendants, leaving Ivar to keep pace beside Baldwin. The new bridegroom had a flush in his cheeks and a bit of pale fuzz along his jaw; he was a man now and was expected to grow a beard.

  Ivar reached over to tap his leg, and Baldwin flinched as if any least touch startled him. “Are you well?” whispered Ivar. “You look as if you’ve taken a fever.”

  “I didn’t know.” His eyes had a feverish gleam and his gaze on Ivar had such intensity that all at once those thoughts which had tormented Ivar’s waking prayers and restless sleep last night shuddered back into life and danced through his body. Both young men looked away, at once, and when Ivar looked up again it was to see Baldwin staring now at Lady Tallia with her pale face and frail profile. His lips were slightly swollen, and his eyes were wide.

  “I didn’t know,” he repeated, as at a revelation, but of what he hadn’t known then and did know now he spoke no further word. Ivar was left to ride in discomforting silence beside him.

  2

  WHEN Rosvita slept with the Vita of St. Radegundis tucked against her, the bequest given to her by the dying Brother Fidelis, she always had strange dreams. Voices whispered in her dreams in a language she could not quite understand. Creatures fluttered at the edge of her mind’s vision as at the forest’s verge, trying to catch her attention, then bolting as woodland animals did when they caught the scent of a predator.

  A golden wheel flashed in harsh sunlight, turning. Young Berthold slept peacefully in a stone cavern, surrounded by six attendants. A blizzard tore at mountain peaks, and in the wings of a storm danced moon-pale daimones, formed out of the substance of the aetherical winds. A lion stalked a cold hillside of rock, and on the plain of dying grass below this escarpment black hounds coursed after their prey, an eight-pointed stag, while a great party of riders clothed in garments as brilliant as gems followed on their trail.

  “Sister Rosvita!”

  A hand descended on her shoulder and she woke, dragged out of the dream by the urgent summons of the waking world. She grunted and sat up, blinking.

  “I beg you, Sister Rosvita.” Nerves made young Constantine’s voice squeak like a boy’s. “The king wishes you to attend him. A steward is here to escort you.”

  “I beg you, Brother, recall your modesty.”

  He murmured apologies and turned his back as she slipped out from under the blanket and pulled on cleric’s robes over her undertunic. Sister Amabilia snored pleasingly in the bed; Rosvita envied the young woman her ability to sleep through anything. She considered the Vita and on impulse picked it up.

  The king was out behind the stables, fully dressed as if he had never lain down to sleep the night before. He stood with one foot braced on a stump and a hand braced on that leg as if to give him a place to grip patience as he watched his son pace back and forth, back and forth, along the ground in a curving line that would soon wear itself visibly into the grass. For an instant Rosvita thought the prince was on a leash, but it was only that the pattern of his restless pacing marked the same ground over and over: as if he still paced in a semicircle at the limit of chains. Yet he had been freed from the chains of his captivity to Bloodheart over twenty days ago.

  Dogs growled as Rosvita approached, making her neck prickle. Horrible beasts, they had huge fangs coated with saliva, and eyes that sparked fire. Their iron-gray coats lay like a sheen of metal over thin flanks. They lunged, were brought up short by chains, and contented themselves with barking and slobbering.

  Seeing Rosvita, Henry gestured toward his son. “He has taken a mad plan into his head to ride out after one of my Eagles, without even an escort. Your advice, good Sister, will surely make him see reason where Villam and I cannot.”

  Sanglant stopped pacing and stood alertly as if listening—to her, or to the birds singing their morning lauds. Was it true, as Brother Fidelis had said over a year ago, that the birds sang of this child born of the mingling of human and Aoi blood? Could the prince actually understand the language of the birds? Or was he listening for something else?

  “Let me go, Your Majesty,” said Sanglant harshly. “Call off your dogs.”

  The soldiers glanced toward the staked-down Eika dogs, who growled and yipped, sensing their disquiet. Henry looked toward Rosvita, expecting her to speak.

  Quickly she collected her tho
ughts. “What troubles you, Your Highness? Where is it you wish to go?”

  “She should have been back by now. I have been patient. But there are things stalking her.” He cast his head back to scent. “I can smell them. There is something else, something I don’t understand— What if she’s met with disaster on the road? I must find her!”

  That he did not bolt for freedom was due only to the presence of his father. Henry would not have been king had he not had a gaze as sharp as lightning and a force of will as strong as any ten men. That will set to bear on the prince was all that kept Sanglant from bolting.

  “How will you find this Eagle you seek?” Rosvita continued. “There are many roads.”

  “But I smell death—! And the taint of the Enemy.” He shook himself all over, barked out something more like a howl of frustration than a curse, and suddenly collapsed to his knees. “Ai, Lady, I feel a dead hand reaching out to poison her.”

  “As well chain him up like the dogs,” muttered the king, “as get sense out of him. No one must see him like this.”

  “Your Highness.” Rosvita knew how to soothe distraught men. As eldest daughter in her father’s hall, that duty had fallen to her more than once as a child when rage overtook Count Harl. She had soothed Henry many times. She went forward now and cautiously but firmly laid a hand on the prince’s shoulder. His whole body shook under her touch. “Would it not be better to remain with the king’s progress than to risk missing her on the road? The Eagle you seek will return to the king. If you go hunting for her, how can you hope to find her when so much land lies between?”

  He had a hand over his eyes and was, she now realized, weeping silently. But tears, at least, were a man’s reaction, not a dog’s. Emboldened by this small success, she went on. “We move again today, Your Highness. At Werlida they have stores enough to feed us all for a week or more. How many roads lead to Werlida? You could ride for months and miss her on the road. Only be patient.”