Child of Flame

by Kate Elliott

  For three months she had bided here, as quiet as a mouse, as humble as a sparrow, a most unexceptional guest. And yet Mother Obligatia persisted in treating her as an enemy.

  A woman’s voice, raised in prayer, lifted with heartbreaking beauty: “The longing of the spirit can never be stilled.”

  As quickly it was lost: a shift of air in the dusty corridors, perhaps, or the singer inadvertently turning her head so that her voice didn’t reach so far. A bell tinkled softly. Antonia suspected there were secret hidey-holes from which they observed her. Of course, growing up as a noble child in a royal house, she was used to constant observation. Years of education in the church and the years she had spent presiding as biscop of Mainni, when she was never alone except for moments spent in the privies, had served to hone her skills, to teach her how to present to the world at all times the smooth mask of humility on her face.

  Still Mother Obligatia suspected her.

  A scrape of sandal on rock caught her attention.

  “Sister Venia?” The raspy voice of the lay sister, Teuda, sounded from beyond the curtain.

  “I am ready.”

  For three months they had followed this ridiculous routine. Teuda led her along empty corridors hewn out of stone past the chapel to the tiny library where, in the hours between Terce and Nones, she was allowed to read. At midday, Sister Carita, with her unsightly hunchback, escorted her to the service of Sext and then back to the library. After the brief service of Nones, Teuda led her back to the guest quarters, where she languished until Vespers, the only other service she was allowed to attend with the sisters. Even her meals were delivered to her in the guest quarters, where she ate alone.

  To treat a sister nun in such a fashion was a mockery of charity! They did not trust her.

  Sister Petra was already at work, making a copy of the chronicle of St. Ekatarina’s Convent. She nodded to acknowledge that Antonia entered but did not greet her. In truth, except for Mother Obligatia and the lackwit, Sister Lucida, the other nuns acted around Antonia as though they were under a vow of silence. Only Teuda, as a lay sister, was allowed to speak to her, and she said as little as possible.

  From Terce to Sext, Antonia studied several interesting and obscure works on theology and philosophy: the apocryphal Wisdom Book of Queen Salome; a complete copy—very difficult to come by of the Arethousan Biscop Ariana’s heretical and quite scandalous Banquet, regarding the generation of the blessed Daisan out —of the divine substance of God; the Catechetical Orations by Macrina of Nyssa. But once she had returned from the midday service, she took down the final and of course thereby unfinished volume of the convent’s chronicle. She would finish it today, and then there would be no more reason to delay her mission.

  The light lancing down through the shafts carved into the rock shifted over the four writing desks as the hours wore on. The silence was broken only by the scrape of Sister Petra’s quill and the occasional crackling of vellum as Antonia turned a page. Otherwise, they might have been entombed, suffering the ecstasy of oblivion.

  She caught a whiff of cooking turnips, fleeting, gone.

  Strange, she mused, as she read the final entries. In the year 729: The queen took refuge in the arms of St. Ekatarina from those who hunted her, together with certain noble visitors from Wendar. A party of clerics from Wendar stayed one week in the guest hall. A blight struck the wheat crop in the vicinity of Floregia. Jinna bandits killed every member of the house of Harenna, leaving their palace and fortress in ruins and their lands without a regnant. The palace of Thersa, eight stones, and ruins.

  Two years ago, Queen Adelheid had found safety here, fleeing Ironhead. Two years ago, Father Hugh had sheltered here as well and by an act of sorcery had aided Adelheid’s escape.

  In the year 730: Lord John, called Ironhead, was crowned king at Darre.

  Now Ironhead was dead and Adelheid was queen. Antonia had to admire a mind that worked as subtly as Father Hugh’s, laying out a torturous path often obscured by false doors and then following it to the end.

  The rest of the entry for last year did not interest her, a record of certain disasters, called omens, that had befallen various peasant communities and local districts. No doubt the people had sinned in some grievous manner and were being punished by God, as they deserved. That was the usual reason for famine, drought, plague, and the blight of leprosy.

  No hand had yet recorded the most important events of the current year, 731: the death of the skopos and her replacement by Anne; Adelheid’s triumphant return and her restoration to Aosta’s throne.

  Probably, now, they never would.

  Teuda, the lay sister, appeared at the door. Her time was up. As Antonia tucked the volume back onto its proper shelf, straightening the corners, wiping a smidgeon of dust from the corner of the book placed next to it, she wondered if she would be able to salvage this chronicle from the chaos sure to follow. There was a great deal of valuable information here, and it was obvious to her that the abbesses of St. Ekatarina’s had known far more than they chose to let on. Why else record, in plain sight, the stone crowns scattered around the continent? In their own way, they were making a map. They knew the crowns were a key.

  But she couldn’t tell if they understood what those keys unlocked.

  With a smile for Sister Petra, who had just set down a newly trimmed quill and now wiped ink from her fingers in preparation for services, Antonia left the library and dutifully returned to the guest hall. She tided herself up, revived herself with some wine set aside for this purpose, and went to pray at the small chamber where an altar stood. There was a cunning screen set into the altar itself, a concealed alcove so that an observer on the other side could look into the tiny chapel without being seen. She had noticed it within days of her arrival and could now tell if someone was lurking behind it, spying on her. There was no one there now; they would all be at prayer.

  She spent a while making sure everything was ready. Then she knelt before the altar to pray, and to wait.

  God would grant her triumph. Who else would see that God’s work was done properly on Earth, if not her? She asked, of course, for forgiveness. Sometimes the blood of innocents had to be spilled in order to bring about the greater good for humankind.

  In due course, as she always did, Sister Lucida arrived to escort Antonia to dinner. A halting footfall followed by a scraping sound as she dragged her cane along the ground preceded her appearance in the archway that separated the tiny chapel from the main guest hall. As the lackwit sucked in a breath, she snorted and gurgled, breathing hard, eyes blinking away tears. The light in the guest hall always made Sister Lucida cry, as though she had caught sight of angels in the streaming rays. She looked around aimlessly for a bit, head bobbing; it was difficult for her to focus.

  At last, she fixed on Antonia and hobbled over. She grinned, displaying about ten teeth, all she had left. Her voice was a cross between a goose’s honk and a pig’s snort. “S supper! Praise God!”

  “Pray kneel beside me a moment while I finish my prayers,” said Antonia with a gentle smile. She even helped Sister Lucida with the difficult task of kneeling, grasping her firmly around the back to hold her tight.

  Then she slipped a slender knife out from the girdle wrapping her waist and thrust it, decisively, swiftly, up between Lucida’s ribs, into the heart. As she held it steady, it pulsed to the frantic beat of the nun’s heart. Lucida’s mismatched eyes widened in shock and fear. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, only a strangled croak.

  “Pray, keep still, Sister Lucida, or you will surely die at this moment. As long as my hand holds the knife firm, then you will stay alive.”

  A whimper escaped the nun’s lips, nothing more. A single tear slid from her right eye, trickling down her poxmarked face.

  Antonia closed her eyes, the better to concentrate. The familiar syllables poured as smoothly as cream from her lips. She did not understand them, of course, because they came from the ancient rituals known to th
e Babaharshan priests, but their efficacy was undoubted. “Ahala shin ah rish amurru galla ashir ah luhish. Let this blood draw forth the creature out of the other world. Come out, creature, for I bind you with unbreakable fetters. This blood which you must taste that I have spilled makes you mine to command. I adjure you, in the name of the holy angels whose hearts dwell in righteousness, come out, and do as I bid you.”

  The iron-forge scent stung her nostrils. The breath of its being, shuddering into her view, stirred her hair. A galla swayed at the edge of her vision, a dark, towering shape, like a tall reed, reaching from floor to ceiling of the stone chamber.

  Lucida, seeing it, jerked convulsively in terror. The knife in her chest wrenched sideways. Her heart’s blood poured out of her, a river of scarlet gushing onto her robes, flowing away onto the stone floor. With a grimace of distaste for the mess, Antonia released her and let her drop. She stood and took a step back as the shadow that was the galla brushed past her, smelling the rich tang of innocent blood. Where its substance flicked over her, she heard faintly its agonized screaming, like the whine of a raging storm heard through thick walls. The middle world was torment to the galla; that was why they were so easy to control once they were brought over. Though it wavered, tiny tendrils lapping out to touch the flowering lake of blood, it could not resist the very thing that would bind it to her will.

  It drank.

  She had to cover her nose with a perfumed sleeve to muffle the stink of blood and the stinging forge-tang of the creature.

  Soon enough, it had finished. Lucida was, amazingly, still alive, still conscious, her eyes wide and staring and one hand twitching. Life ebbed quickly. A last whimper escaped her as her soul fled. Antonia was relieved that the lackwit nun had died quietly. Not everyone did.

  Still, it was an effort to raise her hands to pronounce the final command. “I adjure you, creature. This is your task, and you will do as I command. Kill the woman whose true name is Lavrentia, the mother of Anne.”

  Obedient to her will, its dark substance trembled, and it moved away immediately, its bell-like voice tolling the name of its victim.

  Passing through the rock itself, it vanished from her sight, but if she concentrated, she could see with its senses as it forged forward on the track of its prey.

  Mother Obligatia—once known as the novice Lavrentia—assembled all unsuspecting with her nuns in the refectory, laying their simple meal out on the table.

  Now, at last, Antonia allowed herself to totter to the stone bench carved into the wall, back by the entryway. She sank down, shaking horribly, all the strength drained from her limbs. It might take her hours to recover, and the link that bound her to the creature she had summoned still sucked at her heart. When she had been a young woman, sorcery hadn’t taken so much out of her. Age had weakened her. In truth, unless she could divine the secrets of immortality, she hadn’t many more years before she might become too weak to impose her will on the church.

  Resting, eyes shut, she prayed for strength and health and long life in order that she could continue to do God’s work on Earth. On the floor nearby, Lucida’s body cooled and stiffened.

  XVIII

  THE FIELD OF BLOOD

  1

  ANNA found it hard to sleep, especially after listening to the intimate council held late that night under an awning strung up between three trees to give shelter while Prince Sanglant and Prince Bayan conferred, each man attended only by two trusted captains. Sapientia sat beside Bayan, but in truth she hardly spoke, mostly listened. She seemed as nervous as a rat caught in a box.

  “You know these children born out of Duchess Rotrudis,” Bayan had said. “Are Wichman and Zwentibold the best of them? Or are they the worst?”

  “Zwentibold merely lacks imagination,” Sanglant replied. “The sisters are as bad as Wichman, in their own way. There’s a younger boy, too.”

  “God save us,” murmured Bayan, apparently without irony.

  Blessing had already fallen asleep. She stirred, snorting as she turned over, and Anna shut her eyes firmly, hoping that neither of the princes would notice that she was still awake. When Bayan went on, she peeked again, watching the figures silhouetted in lamplight as the awning swayed above them, stirred by the night’s wind.

  “Then can trust be put in the news Zwentibold to us brings?” asked Bayan. “His mother dying. Conrad rides to Wayland on a flimsy excuse, or as we call it, a lame horse.”

  “It is in Conrad’s interest to protect his western provinces from the civil war in Salia.”

  “That horse still limps,” retorted Bayan, glancing at Sapientia. “With sweet words he can sing to all three sides, and when they have done fighting each of the other and lie weak, so he marches in to take what territory he wishes.”

  “Do you know Conrad well?” asked Sanglant.

  “By his reputation I know him.”

  “Ah.”

  “You do not agree?” Bayan laughed. “The crow of gossips says Conrad wishes the kingship of Wendar for himself. Also I hear he married Henry’s niece, this Tallia, who wears a gold torque. Her mother is the elder sister of Henry, is she not? What does Conrad intend?”

  “It’s true that Conrad likes to be his own master, beholden to none. He may wait until we spend ourselves and our men driving out the Quman, and then send out scouts to see what remains. I don’t know. What troubles me more is that Theophanu has retreated to Quedlinhame.”

  “She fears the Quman,” said Sapientia.

  Sanglant shifted impatiently on his camp stool, lifting his empty cup for more wine. “Only a fool doesn’t fear the Quman,” he said, hand drifting to touch his throat. “Theophanu does not lack courage, Sister. But she may lack an army, in which case she would have been foolish indeed to meet Bulkezu on the field. According to Zwentibold’s report, she turned west before anyone in this region knew we were coming. I expect she retreated to Quedlinhame in order to protect it—”

  “You always take her side,” said Sapientia suddenly, falling silent again only after Bayan laid a hand on her arm.

  “—or to have a base from which to harry the Quman, in case Bulkezu took Osterburg and afterward chose to strike west into the heart of Saony. A wise enough decision, from a strategic point of view. But why has she such a meager army at her disposal?”

  “Our father took Liutgard and Burchard and most of their host into Aosta, as well as many more, his own and others.”

  “Theophanu should have been able to draw from Varingia and Arconia,” said Sanglant.

  “True enough,” reflected Bayan. “No news to us has come of the western duchies. Maybe they have troubles with Salia, too.”

  “Maybe they do,” echoed Sanglant.

  Anna could tell that he didn’t believe it. Anna could tell that something deeper was troubling him, and if the bold prince was troubled, then how could she possibly sleep? She tossed fitfully, dozing, waking, hearing a rumble of thunder that faded and did not sound again. The heat lingered, although a sprinkle cooled down the worst of the mugginess, thank God. After that, the erratic drip-drop of moisture trickling off leaves kept her awake. The river ran behind them, and once she heard voices raised in song, like the angels beginning their choir, but the rustle of wind through the autumn leaves muted the sound.

  Like God’s glory, snatched away just as the fallen soul came within sight of it. Had she been wrong to let Lord Thiemo tell Blessing the story of the phoenix? What would the prince do when he found out that Blessing was already beginning to ask questions about the martyrdom of the blessed Daisan, and the glory of his Holy Mother, who is God of all Creation?

  Surely it wasn’t wrong to tell the truth? Surely those young monks she had seen, with their paintings and their piety, hadn’t been lying? Surely it wasn’t a heresy, but the truth, concealed for so long. With the land itself torn by war and plague and famine, wasn’t it fittingly brought back into the light?

  But she was only a common girl, struck dumb by God’s hand, recovered th
rough a miracle, nursemaid to a princess by God’s will. How could she tell what was true and what was false? How could she know what was God’s will and what the Enemy’s lies? The only thing she really knew was that Prince Sanglant would be very, very angry when he found out about the stories Lord Thiemo was telling his daughter.

  At long last dawn gave color to the air. Where the sun’s rays touched the ground, mist steamed up, making streamers of gauze among the trees. The river was cloudy with mist. She could barely see the other bank, although she heard the Lions at work, chopping, hammering, and swearing, as they prepared a blockade for the ford.

  The army, stirring like an ill-tempered beast, made ready to march. Prince Sanglant kissed his daughter and sent her with her retinue to stand on the royal platform—the planks on which Sapientia and Bayan had held court the evening before—to preside as the army moved west in marching order. Anna stood behind Blessing’s chair while Heribert answered the young princess’ endless questions.

  “Why isn’t my Daddy riding first? They don’t like him.”

  “Nay, it is no insult to your father, sweetling. It is Princess Sapientia’s right and duty to lead the vanguard. She is King Henry’s heir and must prove herself as a leader.”

  “Why?”

  “If she hasn’t the luck and the leadership to command troops in battle, then she cannot reign.”

  “But she’s married to Prince Bayan.”

  “He’s a foreigner, who can only rule as consort, not as regnant, over the Wendish.”

  “Why—?”

  “Hush, Blessing, no more on this subject if you please. Sapientia commands two legions.”

  “What is a legion?”

  The army made a great deal of noise, horses neighing, men shouting, the tramp of feet, and the crack of branches as they pressed forward along the road, which wasn’t much more than a track through the forest barely wide enough to accommodate two wagons abreast.

  “A legion is an old Dariyan term, from the old empire. It designates a unit of soldiers who fight under one high commander.”