In the Ruins

by Kate Elliott

  Antonia went into the sitting room where Mathilda sat at a table and laboriously formed her letters. The girl looked up, hearing footsteps, and smiled.

  “Your Holiness! Come see, I pray you. I know every one!”

  She was a cunning girl, and eager to display her skill on the wax tablet although generally in the church novices were not taught their letters this young.

  After every letter had undergone scrutiny and approval, and been done again, the child peeped up at her. She had big eyes and long lashes, but she wasn’t sweet, not anymore, not since the days before. As it had in the greater world, the cataclysm had shaken loose the many lesser evils that cut into a soul and thereby in those gouges gave purchase for the Enemy’s minions to claw their way inside.

  “I’m better at my letters than she is, aren’t I?”

  “You are very skilled at your letters, Your Highness.”

  “Better than her?”

  “My child, do not seek to be compared to that you do not wish to become.”

  “She doesn’t like me.”

  “She doesn’t like herself. She is very young.”

  “She’s older than me. She can’t make letters like I can. Will Berengaria die?”

  “We will all die, child. We will all come to dust someday.”

  “But our souls will live.”

  “Those that do not fall into the Pit.”

  She shivered. “I saw it.”

  “You saw what?”

  “The Pit. There was a big wind. There was fire. The earth split apart. It swallowed people. All that poison poured out. Wasn’t that from the Pit? It was stinky.”

  “Maybe so, child. Do not vex yourself. You were not punished.”

  She bit her lip and stared at the letters, then with a sharp movement wiped the slate clean. “I’ll do them again,” she said. “I’ll be perfect so God won’t punish me.”

  2

  ANTONIA meant to stop in her audience chamber—there was so much work to be done—but her steps led her to the North Tower. This time of day, all the prisoners would be within. Blessing was allowed into the courtyard only in the morning, under guard, and her attendants had leave to exercise only in the afternoon, so none would be able to attempt escape without leaving the others behind.

  “Holy Mother.” The guards dropped to one knee, bowing heads, then rose and opened the door.

  The lowest room of the North Tower was now a barracks. Pallets and rope beds filled half the floor, benches and three tables the rest. Men knelt as she entered. At least two dozen were barracked here.

  “Holy Mother.” A sergeant—she’d forgotten his name—came forward. “The queen is above with Captain Falco. Have you come to see the new prisoners? They were brought in at dawn.”

  “Yes. I’ll go up.”

  A stone staircase curved along the outer wall of the tower, leading up to the next level. Here, the three servants slept on pallets laid out on the plank floor. Two of them, the barbarians, sat here now. The young male was binding hemp into rope. He looked up at her, his gaze impassive, and without the least interest in her rank and exalted status he went back to his work. The female had her eyes shut and, although she was sitting, seemed to be asleep. What coarse hands she had! They were large and callused, and she had the unattractive, flat-faced features of the Quman, although Antonia had been told she was born to a different tribe entirely. It made no difference. They were both doomed to the Pit, because they were heathens who refused to accept the Circle of Unity. Except for a single chest, the rest of the circular room was empty and the shutters barred. A pair of guards sat on the wooden steps that had been lowered from the level above, fastened with ropes and a pulley. The stone staircase, continuing upward, had been blocked off with planks.

  “Holy Mother! Will you go up to see the prisoners? Let us help you, if you will.”

  A brawny and gratifyingly polite young soldier lent her a steadying hand. It was not as easy as it had once been to climb stairs that were almost as steep as a ladder, but she got to the second floor without incident. In this chamber Lord Berthold and his attendant slept on decent beds, and therefore good tapestries were hung from the walls and two braziers, now cold, hung from tripods. Carved benches flanked a good table. There was even a chair set beside an open window.

  He sat there, staring out over Novomo with an expression on his face that made her shiver because it was so inhuman in its lack of emotion.

  “Brother Heribert,” she said, that thrill of rage and helpless expectation flooding her weary bones. Ought not a child to love its parent? Didn’t the Holy Book enjoin obedience? He did not turn or even acknowledge that she had spoken. She might as well have been invisible, and mute.

  “Heribert!”

  He roused, startled, and looked at her, but did not rise to greet her, as any natural child would have. He should love her and be grateful to her. He had been a great burden to her, after all, since it was expected she would be celibate. That his father had seduced her—well, that was the work of the Enemy, and no doubt those seeds sown had sprouted and corrupted Heribert in a most improper way to make him so rebellious and ungrateful.

  Before she could speak to tell him so, Captain Falco spoke, his voice heard through the open trap cut into the ceiling. “I will ask you again, where have you come from? Who is this young woman who accompanies you?”

  He got no answer.

  She walked to stand under the trap. The stone staircase here had also been blocked off, and the ladder that offered access to the third floor rested against one of the benches.

  “Can I help you with that, Holy Mother?” asked the guard, who had followed her up. “Can you climb the ladder?”

  “I can,” she said grimly.

  The man set the ladder up through the trap. Heribert rose. From the chamber below, she heard voices.

  “Let me up, I pray you!”

  “My lord, you weren’t to have gone out! The queen was very angry. We told her you were ill with a terrible flux. Lord Jonas threw a hood over his head to pretend he was you and let Paulinus and Tedwin escort him out to the pits. He rowled like a cat hung out on a hook.”

  Berthold’s laugh rang merrily. “After all those pastries, I may yet wish I were that cat—”

  Above, the queen said, “Hit him. Make him talk.”

  A slap fell hard on flesh.

  “Stop it! Stop it, you bitch!”

  “Shit!” swore Berthold, from below. “Who is that?”

  “The other prisoner, my lord. Dark as honey, that one, and I’m sure she tastes as sweet. I didn’t know Wendish women came so dark, like Jinna. But she carries herself like a duchess and she’s Wendish, all right, the bitch.”

  A second slap cracked, from above. From below, feet scrambled on the steps. Heribert’s brow furrowed as he considered Antonia’s face, or the bright tapestry depicting a hunting scene, or the air itself, perhaps, where the sunlight caught the drifting of dust motes. His gaze was focused on no single thing.

  She set foot on the lowest rung as Berthold’s head appeared in the open trap.

  Above, a scuffle broke out. There came another slap, a muffled shriek, and a woman’s sharp curse. Blessing screamed.

  “Sit down!” roared Captain Falco.

  “You’ll not treat me in this manner! Get your hands off me, you pig!”

  “I pray you, child,” said a new voice, a man’s voice. “Sit down.”

  Antonia recognized that voice. She climbed as Berthold dashed across the floor and, seeing her on the ladder, hopped from one foot to the other because he was too well bred to demand she hurry up.

  She had trouble clambering out onto the floor above. By the time she got to her feet, Berthold had swarmed up the ladder behind her, and he stood there, skin flushed, eyes wide, and mouth open as he stared.

  The queen was furious; spots of color burned in her cheeks. This kind of unrestrained anger never made her prettier.

  The servant girl, Anna, had Blessing clasped in a tig
ht embrace. The princess looked ready to kick, but did not.

  A white-haired man was bound to a chair. Two guards stood behind him. Captain Falco, looking as angry as Antonia had ever seen him and bearing a fresh scratch on his face, had his big hands clamped around the wrists of a dusky young woman who appeared to be about the same age as Berthold.

  “Elene!” young Villam cried, in the Wendish manner, dragging out each syllable: Ehl-leh-ney. “Elene of Wayland!”

  Captain Falco released her. The newcomer turned to look at the elderly man, who nodded at her before looking toward Berthold.

  “You look like Berthold, Villam’s youngest son,” said the one called Elene. “I remember you from the king’s schola, where I was held hostage.”

  “You remember me?” said Berthold in the tone of a man who has just fallen heels over head in love.

  “Of course. The others weren’t kind to me, not as you were. They called me names. They were jealous of my father, of course.”

  “Elene of Wayland,” said Adelheid. She folded her hands and tucked them close against her belly as might a child who has been warned not to snatch at a piece of sweet cake it particularly wants. “Are you Conrad’s daughter?”

  The girl looked at her, just that, then turned her back most insultingly and crossed to kneel beside the elderly man. “Have they hurt you, Wolfhere?”

  “Hush!” hissed Anna in a too-loud voice as Blessing squirmed in her arms. “Hush, my lady!”

  “I want to go to Berthold!”

  Anna let her go, and Blessing bolted across the room and flung herself so hard against Berthold that he staggered and almost plunged down through the trap.

  “Brat! Hold, there! I can’t breathe.”

  But he didn’t look at her. He had not once taken his gaze from Duke Conrad’s beautiful daughter, who had, against all expectation, turned up in Aosta under the protection of Brother Lupus, known as Wolfhere, the last of Anne’s cabal.

  How very interesting.

  “Enough!” Adelheid tugged pointlessly at her sleeves as she struggled to recover her composure. “Let the Eagle stew in the hole until he is willing to tell us why he travels north through Aosta without a retinue and with a duke’s heir in his talons. Conrad’s daughter may remain with her royal cousin for now.”

  “I don’t want her!” retorted Blessing, who was still clinging to Berthold. “I don’t like her.”

  “I’ll show you, you little beast!” said Elene, with a spark of gleeful spite as she spun to face Blessing. “You think I don’t know how to discipline nasty little sisters?”

  “Hush, Blessing!” scolded Berthold. “Duke Conrad is your father’s cousin. You’ll treat Lady Elene with respect.”

  “I won’t!”

  Wolfhere spoke for the second time. “Princess Blessing. Be good, as your father—and Brother Heribert—would wish you to.”

  The words silenced her. She sniveled, but kept her mouth shut.

  Elene smiled. She looked at Wolfhere, and he at her, and some message passed between them that Antonia could not read, but she understood its import. Prisoners as they were, fallen into the hands of enemies, they were not scared in the least.

  They have a plan already.

  “Captain, take him quickly, before I lose my temper,” said Adelheid. She turned toward the trap. “Holy Mother! Why have you come?”

  “To see the prisoners, Your Majesty. How are they come here, in these terrible days?”

  “They were found walking north. How can a pair of travelers with but one sorry mare between them have survived the journey through southern Aosta? Yet neither deigns to speak. We will have to torture the Eagle to extract a confession. Captain!”

  Falco untied Wolfhere from the chair. The old man’s hands were still bound, and he was bundled away down the ladder while Elene stared after him. Adelheid followed.

  “Here, now, brat,” said Berthold, “let go.”

  “Won’t.”

  “How have you come here, Lord Berthold?” asked Elene.

  “I pray you, Holy Mother,” said Berthold sweetly. “Will you lead us in prayer?”

  The girl started, then lifted her chin to acknowledge the blow. She was not subtle, but it was clear that, like her infamous father, she was stubborn and strong. And hiding something. There was a perfume, if not quite a smell, about her that reminded Antonia of Anne and the tower in Verna: the stink of sorcery, that she knew so well herself.

  “You are Meriam’s granddaughter,” Antonia said.

  The girl looked at her, surprised. That youthful face had a great deal of pride, but she was also wary, guarded, watchful. She was thinking, plotting, planning.

  “Who are you?” she asked imperiously.

  “I am the Holy Mother of the faithful, child.”

  “You are the skopos? Holy Mother Anne’s successor?” she asked. “Yet you speak Wendish. You’re not Dariyan-born. Did Holy Mother Anne choose you to succeed her?”

  “God have chosen me to do their work on Earth.”

  Elene giggled, her expression touched so slightly with hysteria that Antonia almost missed it. Beneath the noble arrogance inherited from her father, she was fragile. The strength she had shown in front of Wolfhere had no deep roots. “I pray you, Holy Mother, intercede with the queen. Do not let them harm Wolfhere. He saved my life!”

  There was a secret here, but she would have to probe carefully to uncover it. “How did he save you, child?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “I pray you, Holy Mother,” broke in Berthold, “can’t you see she is exhausted? Let her rest. Surely you can interview her later.”

  “Wolfhere must not be harmed!” Elene dropped to the floor, weeping.

  “Let go, brat!” Berthold shook off Blessing. He crossed to Elene, grasped her hands, and knelt beside her. “I pray you, lady, do not despair. I won’t let Wolfhere be harmed.”

  She lifted her face to stare up at him through her tears. Such a handsome couple! So young and so emotional, as the young were.

  “Stop it!” said Blessing furiously. She stomped forward and tried to shove herself between Berthold and Elene.

  “That’s enough, brat!” said Berthold sternly.

  “Stop it, yourself!” Elene pinched the girl so hard on her backside that Blessing shrieked, leaped away, and flung herself into Anna’s arms, sobbing noisily.

  “No one loves me! I hate all of you!”

  Elene’s tears had dried. She looked at Berthold, measuring him, and he stared at her with all the intelligence of a young man who has fallen hard and helplessly into the snare of infatuation. She did not remove her hand from his. Tremulously, she smiled.

  “No! No! No! He loves me, not her!”

  “Your Highness,” said the servant girl, clutching the writhing child so tightly against her that the strain showed on her face, “I pray you, do not make a scene. Of course Lord Berthold loves you. We all do.”

  “Even Papa got rid of me! No one loves me! No one! No one! No one!” She fell into a sobbing temper tantrum that took all the servant girl’s strength to contain.

  Antonia smiled. “Lady Elene. What is it you wish?”

  She released Berthold’s hands and stood. His concern had given her an infusion of strength. “I wish for Wolfhere to be released so he and I can continue north. I want to go home!”

  “Queen Adelheid will not be so easily persuaded.”

  “I have other—” She cut herself off, remembering prudence.

  “I expect your grandmother has taught you some of her arts, child. I am not ignorant of Anne and her sorcery. I know Meriam. Is she dead?”

  Elene’s shoulders curled. Her tense stance slackened. “Yes,” she whispered. “She’s dead. Anne knew it would kill them all, and she didn’t care! That’s what Wolfhere said.”

  “Wolfhere would know, would he not, for he was Anne’s most loyal servant.”

  Elene tilted her head sideways as a measuring smile teased her lips. “That’s right,” s
he said in a mocking tone.

  Impertinent child!

  “I don’t know what Wolfhere told you to convince you to travel with him. I stood among their number, once, before Anne tried to betray me. I saw what was coming. I saw who supported Anne, but I also saw that I would be sacrificed, so I chose a different path. That is why I survived.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Berthold.

  Blessing sobbed on and on. “No one! No-o-o one!” The child had remarkable stamina, which was, no doubt, some unnatural inheritance from her parents.

  “Of course you are right,” said Elene quietly. “I pray you, Holy Mother, do not let them harm Wolfhere.”

  “I am sworn to God’s service, not to the trivial quarrels of humankind. Yet I hate to see suffering. It is possible that you and Wolfhere have information that may be of value to me.”

  “I’ll tell you everything, if you’ll let us go.”

  “Were you not already planning to escape? What manner of sorcery did your grandmother teach you?”

  Elene twisted one hand within the curve of the other. She bit her lip.

  “I know something of sorcery, Lady Elene. I am not without weapons of my own, cruel ones, more dangerous than you can know. Ones whose reach flies farther than that of arrows or spears. Ones whose touch is deadly, and whose heart cannot be turned aside by any manner of plea or bribe. My servants are not of this world, and nothing on this Earth—nothing you have—can stop them.”

  Blessing stopped crying, but she shuddered against her servant.

  Elene hid her face in her hands. “I know who you are. My grandmother spoke of you. You’re the one who controls the galla.”

  “That I am. Now do you see it is better to cooperate with me? Even if you used magic to escape, my servants can still hunt you down no matter where you run.”

  “What are galla?” asked Berthold, his face twisted with nervousness and confusion and a touch of proud Villam outrage.

  “Something very bad,” said Elene so faintly that her voice faded and was lost as, below, a bench scraped and a guard’s yell drifted up from the lowest level. She lowered her hands. “What do you want from us, Holy Mother?”

  “I want the truth. Tell me everything you know, Lady Elene. I cannot allow you or Wolfhere to leave, but I will see that you are well treated and that Queen Adelheid does not harm you.”