by Kate Elliott
“I am not sure he is the right person to ask to join us,” Severus was saying. “I don’t trust him.”
Marcus laughed sharply. “Don’t trust him because you fear he’s ambitious, or because you’re jealous of his influence over the Holy Mother and the college of presbyters?”
“I trust no person who uses beauty as a weapon to gain advancement,” said Severus sourly. “Nor should you.”
“Beauty is not a weapon,” said Meriam softly from her couch, “but a gift from God. It would be a sin to shroud that which God have molded.”
“Women are always fools when thrown into the company of attractive men, or so I have observed,” muttered Severus.
“Even if that is true,” said Antonia, amused by the tenor of their conversation and especially by Severus’ indignation, “we are but six when we must be seven. Hugh of Austra is born of a noble line, he has Bernard’s book, he studies sorcery, and he seems pious. Must we cast away this opportunity to make our number whole again just because you don’t trust his handsome face, Brother Severus?”
He grunted irritably. “In my old monastery, we understood that vanity is a mortal sin.”
Anne raised a hand for silence. “Time is short, and our need is great.” Three lamps burned in this richly furnished chamber, enough to light the table and elaborately carved benches at which they sat. Tapestries softened the walls, but the lamplight barely illuminated the shadowed images of the holy martyrdoms of St. Agnes and St. Asella, youthful girls who, in the early days of the church, had chosen death over marriage to nonbelievers. “I saw last year at Werlida that Hugh had promise. That is why I let him take Bernard’s book.”
“You let him take it?” Severus sat back in outrage. He still bore scars on his face from the conflagration at Verna. Of all of them, except of course for poor dead Zoë, he had sustained the worst injuries. “After all I had done to erase that knowledge so that we alone would possess it?”
“Of course. I could have prevented him from leaving with the book, but I chose not to. Now that I see what he has made of his opportunity to gain in knowledge, I know that I was right to do as I did then. He is clever, and he seems to have tempered his obsession for Liathano, which hindered his ability to learn and wax stronger in knowledge.”
Antonia thought better of mentioning that illuminating episode in St. Thecla’s Chapel. Secrets, like treasure, were best hoarded until that day when they could be spent most usefully by the one who possessed them.
“The new year is almost upon us,” continued Anne, “and the rains will soon cease here in Aosta. Travel will be possible again. We must consider certain errands.” The gold torque, signifying her royal lineage, winked at her throat, barely visible beneath the rich wine-colored robes she wore to mark her status as a member of the Holy Mother’s innermost circle of counselors. It irked Antonia that Anne had simply walked into the skopos’ palace early last autumn and by means unknown to Antonia had gotten herself seated at once at the Holy Mother’s council table, especially since Antonia herself had been relegated to the schola as a mere cleric. But Anne’s power was not to be trifled with, or challenged. Not yet, anyway. “Sister Meriam, you must continue your work with Hugh of Austra.”
“So I will,” agreed Meriam from her couch. “It is always a pleasure to work with a young man whose manners are elegant and whose understanding is quick rather than dead. It goes slowly because he will not let the book out of his grasp, and he is often busy with other matters in the palace. But in any case, I urge caution.” She paused to catch her breath.
“Go on,” said Anne after a suitable interval.
“This text Bernard bound into the middle of his book is not proving to be what I expected. If it goes on as it has begun, from what little we have translated so far, then it may prove more dangerous than any of us can know.”
“Yet what we seek may still be found there. You must continue, Sister. If we cannot find the key to the Aoi crowns, through which they wove their magic, we will not be able to prevent the Lost Ones from returning.”
“I will continue,” said Meriam, her frail body almost hidden by shadows. The lamplight did not quite reach her. “What of the other matter? What of the promises made to my son?”
Anne frowned as if she’d forgotten what she was about to say next, but the expression passed quickly. “That must wait until we see what transpires with Ironhead. King Henry’s mind is closed to me, and his Eagles shroud him from my sight. Let us see what course events take before we act. Meanwhile, another serious matter must be dealt with. Brother Lupus is missing.”
“Do you suppose he is dead?” asked Severus.
“Do you hope he is?” asked Marcus with a smirk. “You’ve never cared for Brother Lupus.”
“A common-born man with no family to recommend him? And no respect for those born of noble kin?”
“I would know if Brother Lupus were dead,” said Anne, thus ending the exchange. “He is missing, and I cannot say why, nor can I find him when I seek him through fire or stone. Brother Marcus, you must seek him out. Rescue him if need be.”
“Travel again! Sister Venia remains whole and hearty, and knows the northern kingdoms better than I do. My Wendish is a frail thing, easily flustered. She could go.”
“Sister Venia remains under ban in the northern kingdoms and might be recognized. It will be you, Brother Marcus.”
He sighed. “Very well.”
Anne nodded. Her calm expression never altered. Why should it? Her wishes were never refused. “There remains the unfinished business of my mother, Lavrentia, whom I thought long since dead. One among us must go to St. Ekatarina’s Convent in Capardia. Without seven to bind a daimone to our will, we haven’t the power to do what needs to be done, as we did with Bernard.” There it came, the look that none could disobey. “Therefore, it must be you who goes, Sister Venia.”
Antonia sighed, an echo of Marcus’ displeasure at having to leave the manifold comforts of the skopos’ palace. She had eaten well this night at the Feast of St. Johanna the Messenger. But she knew better than to object. “What am I to do there?”
“Gain the confidence of the sisters. Enter the convent as a guest. Discover what you can. When the opportunity arises, kill my mother.”
Anne did not keep them much longer. Antonia had only postponed her hunt, not given it up. Once she was sure that the others had gone to their beds, she made her way to the suite of chambers reserved for the use of the skopos.
The carpeted anteroom leading into the skopos’ bedchamber muffled her footfalls, so she entered in silence and paused behind the concealing wooden screen. She scented magic at work here, a perfume like that of almonds. She always wore certain amulets to protect herself against the effects of bindings and workings, what she called common magic, as easily learned by an old wisewoman as by a noble cleric. Love spells, sleep spells, invisibility spells: these she had no fear of, and the scent of almond seemed to her like a veil, one that worked as a double-edged sword in her favor. If Hugh used common magics to conceal his intrigues, then he might just be arrogant enough to believe that no person in the skopos’ palace was immune to them. Except Anne.
She peered out into the chamber. The presbyter sitting in attendance with Hugh had fallen asleep, snoring softly in a chair set against the far wall. Hugh was alone with the dying woman.
At first, Antonia thought he was actually spinning Mother Clementia’s soul out of her wasted body, a pale thread of light that writhed and curled in his hands. But she had lived in Verna long enough to recognize the aetherical form of a daimone. Marcus had been right: Hugh had bound a daimone and used it to control the skopos.
She had to admire his audacity and skill. After all, he was using his power for good. So what did it matter what means he employed?
Mother Clementia sighed in her sleep. The pink color seeped out of her cheeks as Hugh wound the struggling daimone into a red ribbon. The skopos grayed, fading. Dying fast. Only the daimone had kept her alive for
so long.
At last Hugh sat back, finished. The red ribbon in his hands twisted and fluttered like a live thing, and perhaps it was now that it contained a daimone. He concealed the ribbon in his sleeve and, to her surprise, slipped his precious book out from under the shelter of the skopos’ featherbed. Antonia stepped back into the shelter of the angled screen as Hugh walked past her to the door, so lost in thought that he didn’t even scan the shadows to make sure he hadn’t been observed.
He passed out of her sight, into the anteroom. She heard low voices outside. Brother Ismundus entered to take his place in Hugh’s chair as the snoring presbyter startled awake, smiling as if from sweet dreams.
Antonia slipped out unnoticed. Hugh had already left the anteroom, but she had a good idea where he might be going.
She found him deep in prayer in St. Thecla’s Chapel. This time, she made sure to examine closely the thresholds of the two adjacent doors that led up into the galleries. He had gone far beyond the crude bindings of cloth and dried herbs that common folk used to protect their henhouses from the depredations of foxes or to lure an unsuspecting sweetheart into falling in love. Like every threshold in the skopos’ palace, meant to glorify God by the beauty of its ornamentation, these lintels had been carved by master artisans. As befit the chapel dedicated to St. Thecla, the vivid carvings represented cups and robes, her sigils. But when Antonia reached up to brush a finger over the shape of one of those cups, she felt the sting of magic on her skin. Hugh had glossed over the bright colors with a glaze. It stank of lavender and narcissus, harbingers of sleep and inattention. He had ground them into a paste and used a coating of them to disturb the disposition of any person who might climb to the gallery and thereby observe him.
But Antonia’s mind remained clear. She took the narrow steps slowly, careful to miss the eleventh step, which creaked. The gallery was empty; everyone else was asleep, or at the feast.
But she was not entirely alone. Below, illuminated by a single lamp, knelt Hugh, golden head bowed in prayer.
Maybe she was getting a little obsessed with him. She would have to be careful. In part, she missed Heribert. She had always had someone to manage before, but of course she must never make the mistake of believing Hugh to be as manageable as Heribert. Not that Heribert had proved manageable in the end—damn Prince Sanglant.
Below, Hugh whispered words too softly for her to understand. The ribbon twisted and wound around and through his fingers in a sensuous dance, one that, briefly, reminded her of that one dalliance, three months of carnal pleasure as luxurious as silk—
All at once, the ribbon went slack. The daimone had escaped him. But he did not cry out. For a long, long time he knelt in intense concentration and with his eyes shut.
Now and again she caught scraps of words, whispers spoken as though to an unseen accomplice. “Change does not come easily. …Let me not speak of torment, who sinned so grievously…. Fate guides her movements.”
All at once, he threw back his head. By the light of that simple lamp she saw such a look of bliss transform his face that she might as well have caught him in the act of lovemaking.
Ai, God, if only she knew how to bind such emotion in, gather it all to herself. People were so weak, and so transparent. Even as cunning a man as Hugh in the end wasted his substance in the throes of ecstasy. Yet his yearning was as rich as cream, and she could not help but drink it down as his lips parted and he sighed as does a man who has at last achieved his heart’s desire and the fulfillment of his most pressing physical need.
“Ai, Liath,” he murmured, like a caress. Like rapture.
Antonia licked her lips.
He jerked back, eyes snapping open. He looked surprised, almost bewildered, but the moment passed quickly and with a grimace he gripped the ribbon tightly and shut his eyes again, mastering himself. The ribbon twisted weakly in his hands. A pale thread of aetherical light stabbed down, as though from the heavens, winding down along his arm and weaving itself back into the substance of the ribbon. The lamp flared hotly, and he winced in pain.
“Damn!” he swore as the ribbon came alive, contorting and thrashing like a snake trying to escape its captor, but he had too tight a hold on it as he murmured words of binding. For an instant she could actually see the bound daimone writhing within the confines of the silk ribbon before he tucked it away into his sleeve.
Standing, he was shaking, shaken by his unseen encounter, too distressed to take any notice of his surroundings as he tucked his book under his arm and hurried out of the chapel as though to escape an inferno.
He had learned to conceal from others the emotion that blazed in his heart. But Antonia knew how to watch and to listen, how to find out just those secrets that would serve her best when the time came, finally, for her to act. Anne’s scope, for all her power, was too narrow. Anne thought only of the coming cataclysm, not of what could be built out of its ashes.
Antonia did not intend to make that mistake, but she knew she would have to have allies, whether willing or not.
Hugh did not return to the skopos’ private chambers. He wandered by a roundabout and rather complicated way that led him, in the end, out along the parapet set on the cliff’s edge, the high point of the Amurrine Hill on which stood the two palaces, symbols of the endless tension between spiritual and secular rule in Darre.
Here, in the waning days of the dying year, the night air had a fresh taste to it, the scent of change. In Aosta, the rains were drawing to a close. With the turn of the year, the rainy season would give way to the long drought that marked summer and early autumn. Meanwhile, in pots set at intervals along the wide parapet walkway, lilies and violets and roses had already begun to bloom. Some hopeful soul had hung myrtle wreaths from the tripods where lamps stood, their flames marking the path for anyone who walked abroad so close to dawn.
He made his way to one corner of the walkway, leaning far out over the waist-high wooden railing as though ready to test if he could fly. Wind whipped his robes around him, bringing them to life, or perhaps they, too, were being visited by a daimone coerced down from the spheres above.
The bell rang for Vigils, but here on the wall its call seemed unimportant compared to God’s glorious creation laid out before them. The clouds had blown off to reveal the heavens in all their brightness.
She paused in a pool of darkness to look down toward the river running far below at the base of the hill. From this height, the shadowy ribbon of the river was glazed a silvery gray by the moon’s last light. Almost full, the moon was setting now, Somorhas’ bright beacon following behind. She studied the stars, pleased to find it easier to identify the constellations. Somorhas stood at the cusp of the Healer and the Penitent, in her bright aspect as the morning star. Red Jedu shone malevolently above, caught in the Sisters, who plot mischief, but steady Aturna shone within their house as well, with the promise of wisdom brought to their scheming.
He spoke unexpectedly, still staring out into the gulf of air. “Nay, do not step out into the light. I know you come from Sister Anne. The king is coming, and it is better if he does not see you.”
At once, so easily, her mastery was overset. Her heart pounded erratically, and for an instant she felt as might a hen, come face-to-face with the fox himself. Was it possible he’d known all along that she was following and observing him? She touched the amulets hanging against her breast, hidden by her cleric’s robes, and breathed herself back into calm. Nay, he did not call her by name. Perhaps he had heard her, but he hadn’t seen her face. He wasn’t sure exactly who she was. Her scheming was still safe as long as Anne didn’t suspect her.
Silent, she stayed hidden from his sight.
“Tell Sister Anne, if you please, that I have considered what she had to say. But she must understand that I am loyal to my king.”
The heavy tread of agitated footsteps echoed up to her. Someone was climbing the outside stairs. She shrank farther back into the shadows. The bell began to toll again, ringing out seven
strokes, the call of death. Another bell, in a distant chapel, took up the stroke, and then a third, an echo ringing through the city below, leaden and somber.
Ironhead strode onto the parapet, breathing heavily.
“Mother Clementia is dead!” Stopping in front of Hugh he set fists on hips as if he expected Hugh to take the blame. “Now what are we to do? I need a skopos who will support me! You know how the nobles all hate me.”
“My lord king, it might serve you better if you did not abuse thirteen-year-old girls in the sight of your noble companions and a hundred church folk.”
Ironhead spat on the plank walkway. “I’ll never win their love, so why should I temper what I do?”
“It’s true that a bastard should not expect love,” agreed Hugh smoothly, “but he may yet earn a measure of respect.”
“Will respect earn me the new skopos’ support, whoever she may prove to be?”
“Do not fret, my lord king. The right person will be chosen as skopos.”
“Will she truly? So you have promised me before.”
“Have I not accomplished everything that I promised you in Capardia, at the convent?”
Ironhead grunted, pacing in a tight circle bound by the railing and the stairs. “You promised me I’d win the crown and that Mother Clementia would herself place the circlet on my head. So it proved.”
“Then what troubles you, my lord king?”
“I’ve gold enough to buy another thousand mercenaries, but King Henry has gold, too. Spring is upon us. Soon the passes will open. If he marches down into Aosta, he might bribe my army with Wendish gold and then where would I be? Without the skopos’ support, I can’t hold on to Darre, much less the rest of Aosta.”
He flung himself against the railing so hard that Antonia flinched, afraid the wood would shatter and he go tumbling down, and down, to fall and break himself on the roofs of the houses built up against the base of the cliff.
But the railing held.