by Kate Elliott
It was the twentieth day of Aogoste, the feast day of St. Guillaime of Benne who had chastised the wicked king Tarquin the Proud of Floretia and then when King Tarquin would not institute laws according to Guillaime’s wishes—and the will of God, of course—brought down a great flood upon Floretia that washed every soul in it out to sea. Including himself—thus had he gained his martyr’s crown, and her respect, although she would have gotten out of the city before calling down God’s wrath. The city had never recovered and, according to Heribert, still lay in ruins.
She heard voices outside and, with some effort, got to her feet. It was harder to get up and down these days. She was getting old, and therefore had less time in which to improve the world. When she left the chapel, she was surprised to see Brother Marcus walking beside Sister Anne on the plank walkway, speaking so intently to her that he didn’t at first notice her or the other figure passing by: Prince Sanglant. These days, the prince normally did not walk among the lower buildings; he kept to himself, with his daughter and wife up at his hut or working in the meadows or woodland on the upper slopes. But a burst of summer storms had dislodged a wooden shingle on the roof of the hall, and he had, he had said, too much respect for Heribert’s hard work to let it go to ruin.
Brother Marcus looked up abruptly and saw the prince, and he stopped short and gaped as if he expected to see a slavering pack of wolves come howling out of the air around him. “Will he bite?” he demanded of Anne.
“Walk on, Brother,” said Anne. “We are in no danger.”
Sometimes, Antonia reflected, allies walked right into your camp and declared themselves.
“Truly, Prince Sanglant,” she said, coming up beside him when Anne and Marcus had vanished into the tower, “there have been many unexpected comings and goings. Yet I wonder that those who most wish to depart remain behind.”
“Why do you wonder?” He had Blessing with him, swaddled in a linen band and resting at his back in much the same way, she supposed, he carried his broadsword during wartime. The infant was not allowed in the magi’s tower, so when Liath took her lessons or met with the others, he had perforce to carry the baby with him. After all, now that Heribert was gone and the guard dog dead, there was no one else he could trust to watch over her.
“It is no wonder you are suspicious of me,” she said, “so I will offer you a confidence, so that you can understand that I am also imperfect, and not your enemy. Heribert is not my nephew: He is my son.”
She had surprised him. That was good.
“He kept your secret,” he said.
“He is an obedient son.” Had been, at least, until the magi here at Verna corrupted him. Truly, they had a lot to answer for. “Why tell me now?” he asked, but she only gestured to the air.
“Nay,” he said, “There are no servants near us now. There is no one to hear except for me.”
It was true he had an uncanny way of knowing when the servants gathered nearby and when they were absent. Nor would it be to his advantage to offer any more knowledge to Anne than what Anne already knew. “Trust is a complicated thing. Some have said that either you trust completely, or never trust at all. As one who has studied the Holy Verses at some length, I can see there is a great deal of truth to that. Either we trust in God, or we do not. Either we abide by Their laws, trusting that They hold us in Their hands, or we do not. There is no bridge between faith and apostasy. But in earthly matters we are all stained with darkness, even the best of us. All but the blessed Daisan, of course, for how else could he have been lifted bodily up to the Chamber of Light if any taint of the Enemy had touched him? He alone among humankind was entirely of God.”
“Isn’t that a heresy?” he said, almost laughing, and it angered her that he would make light of her wisdom and experience in this way. It angered her, until she remembered that he was not wicked: like the beasts, he simply lacked understanding.
“Nay, child,” she said, “the heresy mistakenly teaches that the blessed Daisan partook of both a mortal and an immortal soul, that he was both human and divine. This cannot be, of course. God did not allow Their messenger to be sacrificed, as some heretics claim. It is on this very point that the true church, in Darre, broke off with the Arethousans three hundred years ago, because the Arethousan patriarch was in error—” She had lost him. He had that same blank look in his gaze as the cattle chewing their cud in the field.
With some men, one had to interact on the most basic terms. She tickled the baby under its chin. “Such a precious burden,” she said, and saw him soften. Like most men, he suffered from an excess of sentiment. She recognized it, of course, because of her own weak affection for Heribert. In some ways she admired Anne’s ability to disregard sentiment with her own daughter when, in the cold, clear light of day, she had to make hard choices. Antonia had never been able to use Heribert as ruthlessly as Anne used Liath. “My son trusted you, Prince Sanglant,” she said now. “So do I.”
“Sister Venia!” Zoë called to her from the door of the tower, and she had to leave him.
“He is useful,” Anne was saying when Antonia crossed the threshold and came into the tower chamber. Anne stood at the head of the table. Severus sat to her right, and next to him sat Brother Marcus, then Sister Zoë. To Anne’s left, Sister Meriam sat with hands folded. She was so small and bent that she almost looked like a child sitting at table. Liath sat next to Meriam. Anne saw Antonia enter and gestured toward the empty bench beside Liath. “That we can eat and sleep in the comfort of the hall is due in part to his efforts.”
“It seems strange,” said Brother Marcus, but his lips quirked. “Yet there must be some satisfaction in setting the child of our enemy to work like a common laborer, to benefit ourselves. Perhaps it is a sign.”
Antonia sat down next to Liath, who was mute, picking at the edge of the table with a finger while she stared at the wall. A book lay closed before her; its ivory cover had been cleverly carved in miniature to show the famous episode of St. Valeria confounding the pagan astrologers in the city of Saïs the Younger. A few days ago Liath had begun wearing the gold torque, symbol of her royal kinship; her dark complexion set off the rich gold sheen more beautifully, really, than did Anne’s pale, fair skin. And although it was lowering to think that Sanglant had stumbled on the secret of Anne’s descent before she had, Antonia was not one to throw away information just because it came from an unlikely quarter. Indeed, what Antonia found most interesting was that not one of the other magi had ever commented upon Anne’s breeding, or Liath’s sudden adoption of the torque.
“You have come precipitously from Darre,” said Anne to Marcus. “Tell us your news, Brother.”
“Darre is not the place it was,” he said, glancing toward Liath as if he weren’t sure whether she ought to be there or not. Perhaps he found the gold torque gleaming at her neck disconcerting, but like the rest of them, he did not mention it. “There is a new power at work in Darre. That is why I dared not risk speaking through fire.”
“What can you mean, Brother?” demanded Zoë. “Surely you aren’t suggesting that some other person might without our tutelage have learned to listen through fire or travel within the crowns?”
“The veils grow thin,” said Anne. “Other creatures walk abroad in this time. Bother Marcus, I commend your caution.”
“Any man must walk cautiously in the presbyter’s hall. I learned that years ago.” He was sitting across from Liath, and he reached across the table to draw the ivory-covered book to him. He opened it and idly turned the pages, but he wasn’t looking at the text, only considering. Anne watched him. Liath said nothing. “Queen Adelheid fled Darre when her husband died and the last of her male relatives were killed in the south. No sooner had she run than Lord John Ironhead rode after her. His origins are questionable, to say the least. It is commonly known that he is the bastard son of a nobleman put into service in his guards. He rose to captain and steward, slew his own half brother when that man came into the title, and married his widow
, taking upon himself the title of Lord of Sabina. Ironhead besieged Queen Adelheid at Vennaci. Soon after this, Princess Theophanu together with a small army of Wendish soldiers came south over the mountains. They claimed to be on a peaceful mission to Darre to bring certain petitions from King Henry to the notice of the skopos. Ironhead of course assumed that they, too, were after Adelheid, and he attacked Vennaci. Adelheid and Theophanu vanished in the wilderness and were rumored to be dead. Ironhead returned to Darre with Adelheid’s treasure and a new adviser, a Wendish churchman who had, so we heard in the presbyter’s hall, been sent south to stand trial for sorcery. Yet as soon as Ironhead came to Darre, Mother Clementia crowned Lord John king of Aosta. I believe that this churchman bound a daimone and that he now controls the skopos through its agency.”
“Can this be true?” demanded Severus. “How could he have learned of the binding of daimones? I traveled extensively in my youth from monastery to monastery to erase every reference to sorcery and the art of mathematici that I could find.”
Brother Marcus was enjoying himself. He closed the book and lifted a finger, as if to enjoin patience. “When spring came, a new rumor infected the city. Queen Adelheid had reappeared in the north, and some claimed that sorcery had aided her in her flight from King John. Some claimed that stone crowns had been seen gleaming with starlight and moonlight.”
Even Liath looked up, gaze made sharp by surprise. Severus grunted with annoyance. Zoë clapped a hand to her ample bosom, looking shocked. Meriam’s smile was thin and unreadable. Anne simply waited for Marcus to go on.
Brother Marcus suffered the failing of pride, and he was proud of himself now. Yet the sin of pride was not the worst failing a woman or man could have, reflected Antonia; not as long as she, or he, was right.
“He has Bernard’s book,” he said, and then sat back to enjoy the reactions this statement caused. Antonia, too, was free to study her companions because she had no idea what “Bernard’s book” was or why it mattered.
“Nay!” said Severus. “I thought it was burned.”
“The servant brought no report of the book,” cried Zoë. “Under such constraints, it couldn’t lie!”
“Can Bernard actually have had the power to conceal it and pass it on?” asked Meriam. But she seemed intrigued more than angry.
“Go on,” said Anne without expression. She alone seemed unsurprised. But then, Anne never seemed surprised. Yet neither did Liath seem surprised.
“Well, Bernard’s book. What was I to do? I made an effort to recover it, but, alas, I failed. He was more alert to magic than I had supposed. I underestimated him because it seemed obvious to me that he was working sorcery far beyond his understanding of the art. He was more cunning than I thought.”
Liath’s lips moved, forming a word or a name, but she made no sound.
Marcus drew out a scroll from his sleeve and displayed it almost in the way a boy teases his little sister with a toy she badly wants. “But I did manage to grab this before I had to retreat. I have no idea where he found it, but I think you’ll agree that it is of great interest to us.” With a flourish, he untied the ribbon that bound it closed, and unrolled it on the table, holding down the curling edges with his hands. Everyone leaned to see.
“I beg you,” he said tartly when Liath touched it, “have a care! It’s ancient.”
“It’s papyrus,” she said. “It isn’t parchment at all.”
The strange markings on the page confused Antonia at first; then, just as Meriam spoke, she too recognized it for what it was. “It is a map,” said Meriam softly. “These hatchings are meant as mountains, I think. Here is a river. These are meant, I think, as trees.”
It was a map, but nothing like those ancient navigator’s instruments drawn by the Arethousans or by the Dariyans in the time of their empire. Besides obscure symbols at the border of the map, probably meant to represent heavenly bodies or certain heathen gods, there were seven main places marked on the pale sheet, six at equidistant points on the outside, almost in a circle, and one in the center ringed by what appeared to be mountains. Each of the seven places was made up of seven objects, ragged, arrowlike angles, surrounded by markings that seemed to indicate mountains, or a river, or a valley, or a forest, or the sea. It was hard to tell, and age had obscured some of the map.
“Those represent stone crowns.” Severus actually sounded amazed. “I’m sure of it!”
Marcus smiled slyly and let the scroll roll back up. He tied the ribbon back on, and handed the scroll to Anne. “It looks as if my theory is the correct one.” If his smugness was meant to wound Severus, it evidently worked. The older man looked annoyed and sat back with a grunt.
“Interesting news,” said Anne, although neither her tone nor her expression changed. She placed the scroll on the table. Liath stared at it fixedly; she seemed to want to pick it up, to study it again, but she did not. She only waited. “What shall we do about Darre?”
Marcus waved a hand dismissively. “Mother Clementia is old and weak. She is no threat to us. Whether Ironhead or the old Adeline house rules in Aosta matters nothing to me, and I do not believe it should change our plans.”
“Who rules always matters,” said Meriam softly.
“That book is a danger to everything I worked so painstakingly to conceal,” muttered Severus.
“I have worked for many years,” cried Zoë, affronted, “and still I can only assist in the weaving of the gateways because of their complexity. I remain the sixth part of the dragon, and truly I am content with my position, I don’t mean to suggest otherwise. But it seems impossible to me that an untrained man can through his own efforts open a gateway! With no help!”
“No help but Bernard’s book,” said Anne. “In the right hands, it would be a powerful goad as well as a powerful aid to one who has strength of will and a promising intelligence.”
“Or the ability to lie convincingly,” retorted Zoë.
“What do you say, Liath?”
Unlike Sanglant, Liath had learned how to control her expression; the feelings she carried in her heart did not show on her face. She was opaque. Not remote, like Anne, but veiled. “I have nothing to say.” Yet it seemed a trifle hotter in the chamber.
Lady Above! This entire episode made plain what was wrong with these people. The Chamber of Light was a long way away. God hadn’t put people on Earth so that they could twiddle their thumbs while waiting for death to claim them. This time on Earth was a test. And God had chosen certain, more righteous souls to make sure that all of humankind followed God’s teachings, whether they liked it or not. Like cattle, they must be herded, or else the wolves—the minions of the Enemy—would eat humankind alive.
“Should we kill him?” asked Marcus.
Anne smiled coolly. She turned with deliberate calm to Liath. “Should we kill him, Liathano? You have some acquaintance with this man, I believe. I would value your opinion.”
“Who are we to judge who shall be killed and who shall live?” replied Liath in a low voice, but now Antonia heard real anger beneath that opaque facade.
If Anne was offended by this reproof, she did not show it.
“Is it necessary to kill a person who may prove valuable to us later?” asked Meriam.
“When is it necessary to kill?” asked Anne. “We must only act in such a drastic way when there is no other choice, when there would be more dire consequences in letting a dangerous person live than in bringing death to him.” The armillary sphere set on the shelf behind Anne spun suddenly, although there was no breeze. The planets shifted position and slowed, settling into a new configuration. “But Sister Venia has not yet spoken.”
“I think,” said Antonia carefully, “that the strength of your reactions is founded on a history and an association that I know nothing of. I joined you only recently. These names mean little to me. I am still young in the art.” And increasingly curious. A man had been moving in court circles in Wendar with an interest in sorcery. It was a shame she had
n’t found him first. “Who is this Wendish churchman sent to stand trial for sorcery? From what lineage does he spring? Who is this Bernard whose book you all speak of? Where is he now?”
“Bernard is dead,” said Liath. “He was killed by a daimone. Someone had been hunting him for a long time.”
The celestial globe sitting on the shelf beside the armillary sphere began to glow suddenly, the painted pinpricks on its surface—representing stars—brightening as if a flame, or one of the servants, had somehow wriggled inside. A ripple of light twined along one of the beams overhead, and the smell of charred wood scented the air. Outside, leaves rattled as a stiff wind shook them, then stilled. The gust shifted the door, which stood ajar.
Liath rose suddenly, as stiff as a dog which has scented danger. Carefully, she swung a leg over the bench, extricating herself, and as deliberately walked over to the door. “You killed him,” she said. The sun’s light limned her, made her even seem to glow a little, yet for all her taut anger, her expression was unreadable. The veil had fallen to reveal the monotone face and voice of anger overridden by shock.
It was unusual to see Anne stricken with more emotion than the adversary she faced. Her mouth tightened. Her hands closed over nothing, except, perhaps, memory. “He stole you from us. He almost ruined you in the years he had you in his keeping. He almost rendered you unfit, as we can see this day, as we have seen every day since you joined us. I did what had to be done. When you see the necessity of that, Liath, I will know we have finally undone the damage Bernard did to you.”
“He loved you,” whispered Liath. “He was your husband. Didn’t you care for him at all? Didn’t those oaths mean anything to you?”
“We cannot let affection, or hatred, cloud our judgment. We must be strong enough to kill the ones who stand in our way. We are all only tools in Their hands, and our lives are meaningless except as we act as the instruments of Their will.”