The Burning Stone

by Kate Elliott

  He wasn’t sure of the time. Unlike Sigfrid and Ermanrich, he hadn’t learned how to chart by the rising and setting of stars when to begin Vigils, but when he heard a distant cockcrow, he began to sing, chanting the night prayer.

  “Why do the wicked prosper, Lady,

  while the pure of heart suffer torments on this earth?

  Why do they who wear violence as their robe and talk nothing but malice

  live in glorious wealth, untouched by trouble?”

  Aurora came as he sang the Benedictus, and Sigfrid stirred and woke, kneeling to pray beside him although, of course, he could utter no words. They saw it long before anyone came to find them: a tiny red-gold fledgling bird fluttering among still-glowing coals. As the light rose, it buried itself deep among the ashes.

  At midmorning Milo came to fetch them, looking angry that he had had to make the trip and a little nervous as he examined the still glowing pyre from a safe distance. “Prince Ekkehard wants you,” he called. “Isn’t that thing out yet? Why do you keep praying out here? It’s dead, isn’t it?”

  Back at the village, Baldwin looked utterly exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept at all. He couldn’t stop yawning, and perhaps the prince would have noticed something wrong, but he was still woozy, recovering from the poppy juice.

  “Perhaps Brother Sigfrid can explain it,” Ekkehard was saying as they came in.

  Certain members of the village had gathered, come to complain about dreams and disturbances that had plagued them since the mysterious arrival of the beast.

  “In truth, good Brother,” said the old crone who seemed appointed as their spokeswoman, “we thought these visions would go away once the beast was dead, but it in’t any different now. Worse, maybe. What does God mean by this? Have we done aught wrong? Are we being punished?”

  Ermanrich had grown adept at communicating with Sigfrid, with or without writing, and Sigfrid was so far ahead of them all in his understanding and interpretation of God’s will that they had tacitly agreed to defer to him on matters of doctrine and scripture.

  “What is a soul?” Sigfrid asked, although Ermanrich spoke for him. “It is all that we are, and yet we cannot live on this earth without a body. The blessed Daisan wore a mortal body that was inhabited by an immortal soul, for God so loved the world that She gave to us Her only son, that He should take upon himself the measure of our sins. So He came before the Empress Thaisannia, she of the mask, and He would not bow down before her, for He knew that only God is worthy of worship. The empress had Him flayed, as they did to criminals in those days, and His heart was cut out and thrown onto the ground where it was torn into a hundred pieces by the dogs, for are we not ourselves the dogs, who unthinkingly devour God’s treasures in the course of our growling and fighting?”

  Baldwin was trying not to yawn again. The villagers present were beginning to look nervous.

  Prince Ekkehard was actually able to bend one arm at the elbow so he could rub his nose with the back of a hand. “I think that’s enough for now,” he said.

  “I pray you, believe us!” cried Ermanrich, loud enough that a number of people including some of Ekkehard’s other companions jumped. “His blood washed away our sins!”

  Sigfrid tugged on Ermanrich’s robes and made a complicated signal of signs and grunts, sweeping rushes aside so he could trace letters into the dirt floor of the longhouse.

  “Oh!” said Ermanrich, startled enough that for the first time he looked anxious. “Are you sure—Prince Ekkehard said—” Sigfrid nodded his head emphatically. “Uh, well,” continued Ermanrich, stuttering only a little. He glanced once at Sigfrid, his good-natured face drawn down in a frown, but Sigfrid’s expression was as fixed as adamant stone. “My good Brother Sigfrid says that you who have no faith in the truth of our words will see a miracle at dawn tomorrow, and then you will believe.”

  Ekkehard called them aside after the villagers had straggled out to spread the news. “What are you talking about? I don’t want to lose the goodwill of these villagers by having you babble on and scare them! Baldwin!” Obviously the poppy juice was wearing off, but his arms had more flex and movement in them than they’d had the day before, and he submitted to having his bare shoulders bathed in pine oil water as he scolded Baldwin. “What if we reach my sister and she sends us all home because of your ranting? Ai, God! Nay, leave off!” he snapped at the servant who was probing the bruises on his shoulders. “I will ride out tomorrow. I can ride well enough, I’m much better. Lord protect me! All night I dreamed of naked succubi sighing and moaning beside me in the bed until I thought I’d go mad. I made a promise not to touch any of their daughters, and I don’t want to look bad now, not after I made Wichman look so bad in front of them, but we’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Truly spoken, Your Highness,” said Ivar with a nasty glance at Baldwin.

  “Let us go pray at the beast’s pyre, my lord prince,” said Baldwin. “The villagers stay away from it now, and we’ll be at peace.”

  Ekkehard regarded Ivar with suspicion, as if he’d used sleight of hand to tempt Baldwin away from his rightful lord, but because he wanted to avoid trouble he agreed. Ten of the young men in Ekkehard’s company accompanied them back to the pyre.

  “This is a change of heart,” muttered Ivar as they trod along the path. “I haven’t seen you praying much the last few months. Too busy kissing the feet of my lord prince.”

  “Is this how I’m thanked?” retorted Baldwin. “With your petty grumpiness? Haven’t I been protecting you all this time? Didn’t I save us from Judith? God help me but I hope you can return the favor, for I can’t take another night like the one I just suffered through! They kept sneaking in through the window, one after the next, raving about angels and revelations.” He shuddered, but not even a grimace could mar his perfect features. Walking this close to him, Ivar smelled oil of jessamine lingering on his skin, A sprig of dried lavender was caught in his brilliant hair, and Ivar plucked it out and crushed it between his fingers. A faint scent burst, then dissipated.

  “God protect us,” exclaimed Milo, who was walking at the front. Where the pyre lapped the stream, steam boiled up, and all the ashes and coals were hidden by the churning mist. A scent like flowers distilled to incense permeated the air. A whispery crackling came from the shroud of mist, melding with the babble of water over the stones and the curdling hiss of steam.

  “I—I don’t like it here,” said Milo, taking several steps back, but Baldwin marched right up as close as he could stand and plopped down on his knees.

  “Nothing could be worse than what I endured last night!” he proclaimed. “I would rather die than go through that again.” Sigfrid nudged him, and he added hastily: “Although of course I know that God protects us. We are meant to be here.” He grabbed Sigfrid by the sleeve and jerked him closer, lowering his voice. “Aren’t we?”

  In this way, somewhat anxiously, the second day passed. Sometimes villagers came to look in on them, as if to make sure they weren’t getting up to any mischief, but mostly they were left alone although once or twice Ivar thought he heard giggling at the edge of the distant wood, far enough away that, when he looked back, he only saw pale flashes moving among the trees, dogs or goats, or poor Baldwin’s tormentors.

  Baldwin prayed more beautifully than anyone, and he could lead them at prayers as long as Ermanrich prompted him.

  “They who wander far from God are lost,

  and they are destroyed, who forsake Her.

  But if I desire nothing on earth,

  then God shall be my refuge forever.”

  In this way, twilight came, and Prince Ekkehard joined them at dusk as they sang the service of Vespers, all of them joining in. Their voices blended sweetly, light tenors and strong ones, and a few deeper voices that still cracked sometimes.

  “It stinks in that village,” said Ekkehard as the time of silence came upon them, although this night the moon was full and merry. “I’d rather sleep out here. Isn’t the
fire warm?”

  The fire was warm, and it hadn’t ceased bubbling in that odd way, but no one else seemed to think anything weird was going on. Ivar felt torn in two: frightened and yet unable to slink away because deep in some unlikely core of his being he could not shake the feeling that something very strange and wonderful was about to happen.

  He slept as the moon swept upward to midnight. The crowing of a cock woke him. He lay on the dew-dampened ground with his cheek smashed against a hummock of cold earth and a piece of grass half stuck up his nose. Something was crawling on his face, and he cursed and flicked at it before he pushed up, hoping to get the kink out of his neck.

  Nearby, Sigfrid was singing the Benedictus Domina, except Sigfrid couldn’t sing anymore, and yet Ivar recognized that voice; he had sung beside Sigfrid so often in Quedlinhame that the other boy’s sweet tenor had become his lifeline in the worst of his despair.

  Sigfrid was singing, and weeping with joy, and as the auroral dawn breathed the first light and color into the heavy air Ivar saw that the mist had cleared to reveal the pyre grown to a monstrous height, golden-red coals like a thousand gathered stones heaped up upon each other until they rose higher than a man. Ekkehard, coming awake, stumbled up, arms pinwheeling as though he’d forgotten that he’d been injured, and staggered backward, and so did the others, but they ran up against the villagers, who had come in a throng to stare. Now even some of these ventured forward crying out that their toothache had vanished or their lameness been healed. Sigfrid sang with arms lifted toward the heavens, and Ermanrich, who was quite overcome but eminently practical, dragged him bodily back as the pyre heaved and shifted like a creature coming awake. Baldwin knelt so fixedly with hands clasped in prayer that Ivar thought he’d gone into a trance. He dashed forward to shake him, to wake him up, to warn him.

  The rising edge of the sun glinted beyond the tumulus where the old stone ruins lay like the shattered and gargantuan crown of a long-dead queen. Day broke free from night.

  The pyre opened. A cloud of fragrance burst over them. Flowers showered down around them, insubstantial petals vanishing as soon as they touched the earth.

  It unfolded, wings unfurling, and the great beast rose as glorious as the day after a long, black, and hopeless night. It trumpeted. The sound rang from the heavens down to the Earth and back again, echoing on and on and on until Ivar knew that it wasn’t an echo at all but an answer.

  “The phoenix,” cried Sigfrid. “It is the sign of the blessed Daisan, who rose from death to become Life for us all.”

  It took flight and rose so swiftly into the heavens that the last star winking into oblivion as the sun spilled light everywhere might have been the last flash of its being seen from mortal Earth.

  When it was gone, Prince Ekkehard cried out in astonishment and all the villagers exclaimed in surprise and awe: the hurts of every soul there had miraculously vanished.

  “You have witnessed the power of the Son and the Mother,” said Sigfrid, who alone among them seemed unamazed. His faith had never wavered. “Thus you are healed.”

  But Ivar knew that its beauty had scarred him forever.

  4

  “DO not be so impatient. This is only a minor setback. We have over five years to train her to fulfill her part, more than enough time. You are allowing your natural distaste for her conduct to overshadow your reason, Brother. All will unfold by our design.”

  “So you say. But there have been far too many surprises and setbacks up to now.”

  Sanglant had to concentrate on staking down the log walkway, swinging his mallet at the same rhythmic pace he had been using before Severus and Anne had emerged from the tower and begun walking toward him. He didn’t want them to suspect he was listening. After ten months, they still hadn’t figured out how good his hearing was.

  “It is true that she must be brought to see what folly it is to be bound by earthly desires. I hope that her confinement and illness have shown her the senselessness of indulging in carnal pleasure.”

  “We must be rid of that—that brute!”

  “Cautiously, Brother. I have tested his strengths in many ways, and I am afraid that the geas his mother set on him is stronger than our magic.”

  “You mean you can’t kill him.”

  “I cannot. But I have certain ideas. We still hold the strongest piece. We must only wait until we can use it against him.”

  “You will never persuade her to turn on both husband and child!”

  “We shall see, Brother. Let us speak of other things.”

  They had been strolling down the new walkway all this while and now Sanglant stepped aside to let them pass.

  “A good day to you, Prince Sanglant,” said Anne to him as they cut around the portion he was staking into place. Brother Severus grunted out something that might have been a greeting.

  “Good day,” he said, resting the mallet over one shoulder. He had a wild urge to slam the wooden sledge into their smug faces, and for an instant the desire seemed blindingly clever, but he dismissed it as quickly. No doubt Anne protected herself, and anyway, he would hardly maintain Liath’s good opinion if he murdered her mother.

  Even if she had just admitted to being the person who had tried to kill him.

  “Will Liath be attending the noon meal?” asked Anne pleasantly, pausing just out of his reach. She could, he reflected, as easily have walked down the path to ask Liath that question herself. But she did not.

  “Nay, I think not.” He jiggled a log with one foot; he had almost the entire walkway laid between tower and hall. He and Heribert had set the walkway over the worst muddy bits first as the spring rains ground the pathways into sludge, so that Severus and Anne did not even get their slippers dirty as they skirted this last missing section. “She’ll eat her meal at our cottage.” Then he smiled.

  Anne’s hound growled at him, sensing his insincerity, perhaps. He had left his Eika dog staked down near Liath, a habit he had fallen into these last two months since the birth of Blessing.

  “Very well,” said Anne, and she and Severus stepped up onto the other portion of the walkway and continued on. Sister Zoë stood just outside the door to the hall, pretending not to watch. Sanglant admired her from this distance, lush curves suggested by the drape of her robe, and she turned suddenly and vanished into the hall. He laughed, and one of the servants pinched him on the thigh, as if to scold him.

  “Hush,” he said to it, still chuckling. “I’ve worked enough this morning. Surely I can amuse myself in such a harmless fashion.” But it had already flitted away toward the hall where, no doubt, it would be called upon to serve or clean. He smelled freshly-baked bread and realized then how hungry he was. The walkway could wait. Shifting the mallet to drape across both shoulders, he jumped over the logs and strode back along the winding path, through budding grapes and orchards green with leaves and young fruit, that led to his wife and child.

  He heard her before he saw her.

  “Nay, nay, of course he did the only thing he could. I can’t help but envy her, that she can nurse my daughter and I can’t.”

  He came into sight of the hut to see Liath reclining on the couch Heribert had built for her so that she could lie outside and study in the books that Meriam and Venia brought for her. Heribert sat at the foot of the couch. He had been carving a rattle out of cherrywood, but knife and carving lay still in his hands as he and Liath watched Jerna nursing the baby under the shade of an apple tree.

  It was truly an odd sight: he could see the bark of the tree through Jerna’s translucent body, and although she seemed to have no substance but air and water, she could still hold the baby for short periods of time, enough to nurse it, before it slipped through her pale body as through a thick pudding and sank softly to the ground.

  “What do you think her milk is made of?” whispered Liath, but Heribert could only shrug.

  “Blessing grows,” he said, as if that were enough. And it was enough.

  Liath looked up and
saw Sanglant. She got a silly grin on her face, swung her legs off the couch, and levered herself up by clinging to the curling seashell back so painstakingly carved by Heribert out of maple. “No, no,” she called. “I’ll come to you.”

  It wasn’t far, no more than one hundred steps, but he had to grit his teeth to stop himself from running to help her. She was still so weak, as if all her strength had been drained from her, poured out into the child. She couldn’t even light a candlewick. But she could walk a hundred paces and only have to lean on him a little as they walked back together. The warmth of her body against him set off all kinds of sensations, but he carefully eased her back onto the couch, patted the dog, and went to wash his hands and face in cold water at the trough by the door.

  By the time he returned, a procession of servants had brought trays of food up from the hall: ale, bread, soft cheese flavored with dill, and a pottage of rye meal flavored with salt and cream. She moved aside so that he could sit beside her, and on the whole they ate silently. He was still stewing over the conversation he’d overheard earlier. How had he overlooked that it might have been Anne all along, trying to kill him? She was the obvious choice.

  Did Anne truly mean to set Liath against both him and the baby? And how did she mean to accomplish that?

  “You’re thoughtful today, my lord prince,” said Heribert.

  “Ah, but today is the feast day of St. Mercurius the Changeable,” retorted Liath, “and many stranger things have happened on this day.”

  Becoming an invalid had released an unlikely store of humor from some recess deep in Liath’s being. She wasn’t always very funny, but he always felt obliged to laugh because he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and in any case, it was charming to see her try, who had been so unremittingly serious before.