Lennox, Mary - Heart of Fire.txt

by Heart of Fire. txt (lit)

  idiots got what they deserved? Only their pride got hurt.”

  She couldn’t think with Nicholas near. The half-conscious

  salute he gave her with his ironically raised brow indicated that

  he surmised she was responsible for this terrible accident. How

  could he still treat her so kindly?

  “Let me escort you, my lady,” said Nicholas. His voice was

  filled with concern, and it pierced her like a lance, to her very

  heart. He should be angry with her, furious, actually. If, for a

  moment, anyone else supposed the incident of the blanc-mange

  was anything but coincidence, she would be burned at the stake.

  “Please, Nicholas, give me leave to retire,” she said looking

  at his snowy cravat.

  “You have my leave,” he said on a helpless note.

  Sera turned and walked from the ballroom floor, not looking

  about her at the murmuring courtiers. Once out the large double

  doors, she fled, her steps echoing all the way down the corridor

  and up the stairs, until she slammed the door of her own room

  behind her.

  She knew Effenby and Lady Tranevale were not alone in

  their opinion of her. Many called her a slave, a harlot, and an

  ignorant Hill woman. And their king had brought her to his

  palace, had given her an empty title, had heaped gowns and

  slippers upon her, and bade her come to the ball.

  She had disgraced him and lowered him in the estimation

  of his people. She could hear the rumors beginning now.

  “Clumsy, stupid Hill slave,” they’d say.

  “The king’s witch,” they’d eventually whisper, as the unruly

  Gift continued to evidence itself at embarrassing moments.

  She needed help. She couldn’t wait much longer for the

  thief. She had to go home.

  ***

  After the waltz, it was necessary for Nicholas to remain in

  the ballroom, pretending that it was a perfectly ordinary event

  for a young lady to begin her dancing lessons at her first ball.

  He should be grateful to Effenby and Lady Tranevale for

  providing a spectacular distraction.

  Had Sera’s wish brought about their humiliation?

  Astounding if it were true. No, she couldn’t have done it. Then

  he remembered the vase outside the family dining room that

  cracked the night she’d thrown his jacket in his face, and the

  way her horse had jumped that hedge. But again, he had the

  distinct feeling that she was shocked when the claret and blancmange

  began to fly. Silently, he cursed. Neither science nor

  logic could help him with this mystery.

  How much magic did she have inside her? Would he ever

  understand the half of her? He realized with a start that he was

  far more concerned by the stark look of shame on her face after

  she had tripped than he was about what powers she actually

  had, and how they could help Laurentia.

  Nicholas plastered an easy smile upon his face until he felt

  he could slip off to Sera without arousing undue speculation.

  He had been a fool to put her into a situation that caused

  her pain. He vaguely remembered Sera saying that she had never

  heard opera or classical music. He had not once thought that

  there was some odd philosophical or religious aversion to music

  and dance among her people. He should have checked her

  progress with Gallopet before exposing her to ridicule.

  After an hour of idle pleasantries, Nicholas went in search

  of Sera. Her room was empty. A rush of terror came over him.

  He looked out the window at the darkened park and saw the

  hard sheen of frost reflected in the full moon’s light. Flinging

  the wardrobe open, he went slack with relief. Her gowns were

  still folded neatly on the wide shelves. Her ball gown was

  nowhere to be seen, which meant that she had not yet changed

  from it. Even in her present state of misery, Sera would have

  had the presence of mind to find a more suitable traveling

  costume before trying to escape.

  But where to find her? He took the stairs to the wing opening

  out into the park. At the open doorway, he paused, examining

  the grass. The moon was bright enough to show the little

  indentations where small feet in satin slippers had crushed it

  down. He followed the footprints. It soon became clear that

  they were headed for the mews.

  Nicholas opened the stable door and slipped inside. A lantern

  hung from a hook on the wall outside Wind Rider’s stall, bathing

  the oaken walls in gold. He peeked into the stall. Sera sat in the

  straw between the chestnut’s legs, her ball gown flowing about

  his feet. A bundle was propped against one corner, and she wore

  her blue woolen cloak. Her head was bowed, her forehead

  resting against Wind Rider’s forelegs. The horse stood still as a

  statue. She was talking to Wind Rider, sad little words in the

  Hill tongue. Nicholas made out some the phrases: “hate me”,

  and “want to go home”, and “not safe” seemed to be her

  favorites.

  He sank down beside her, his back against the wall and

  rested his arm on his knee. “Thinking of taking a little trip?” He

  tried to keep his voice as casual as he could, under the

  circumstances.

  She kept her head bowed, presenting the definitive picture

  of dejection. “I don’t have a cloak,” she said in a small voice.

  He was wise enough not to remind her that she was, in fact,

  wearing quite a warm cloak, hooded and lined with sable. One

  that he envied on this godforsaken cold night, when even in a

  stable warmed by the horses’ huge bodies, a man’s breath almost

  froze in the air. He shivered, looked about for a horse blanket

  and grabbed one from a rack outside the stall. He wrapped it

  around his shoulders. Sera still had her head bent. Restless

  fingers pleated her cloak.

  He decided to take the initiative. He didn’t relish sitting

  here till morning waiting for Sera to tell him what was making

  her so miserable.

  “Do you hate music? Is that why you can’t dance?” he asked

  her.

  “We aren’t allowed to have music like yours,” she said,

  and he realized she must be shaken, indeed, to give him this

  much of an answer.

  He took advantage while he could. “Why not?”

  “It encourages the emotions to… wreak havoc upon the

  soul. We have bards who sing their stories, but only with certain

  harmonics and certain rhythms.”

  “Are you allowed to attend the theatre?” he asked carefully.

  “I read about this theatre. The place where people pretend

  to be what they are not?”

  “Sounds more like a description of my court,” said Nicholas.

  “But yes, that is the theatre.”

  “Well, then, no. Long ago, actors and dramatic composers

  were not permitted at home. Now, at the festivals, we may watch

  the great tragedians, because they speak truth to the soul.”

  Nicholas tamped down his excitement. He’d have to tread

  carefully so he didn’t frighten her into silence. “Who decides

  what is permitted?”

&nb
sp; She gave a shrug. “Oh, the rules were decided eons ago,

  but if there is a problem, the Guardians and the Mage reach a

  decision.”

  He kept his tone nonchalant. “Through dialogue?”

  She nodded, glanced sideways at him with forlorn hope in

  her eyes. “Nicholas, could you spare just a few men? To take

  me as far as the Arkadian mountains? I should be perfectly safe

  from there.”

  He put his arm about her, aware that he was holding her

  against him very hard. “I’m afraid not, sweetheart. After this is

  all over, I’ll take you, myself. I should like to meet your

  grandfather. I want to tell him how much I honor and respect

  you. Do you think he would accept a meeting?”

  She shrugged. “I want to go home, Nicholas,” she said in a

  woebegone voice.

  “I would miss you, Sera. Very much. Do you think you

  might miss me a little?” He turned her to face him and stroked

  her cheek.

  Without seeming conscious of it, she leaned her face into

  his hand, rubbing against it like a kitten. “Yes, but I still want to

  go.”

  “Then I’ll take you. Once the war is over.”

  “By then it will be too late,” she said.

  “Why?”

  She leaned her head on his shoulder and gave a long, empty

  sigh. “I cannot tell you.”

  Nicholas pulled Sera closer still, rubbing his hand up and

  down her back in soothing repetition. But part of him was stung

  by her silence upon a matter of utmost importance to her, a

  matter that worried her, and one he could doubtless help her

  solve. It felt too much like rejection.

  “Foolish woman,” he whispered, rocking her gently.

  “Someday you’ll let me take care of you.”

  Nicholas managed to get Sera back to her room without a

  rebellion. That was a good thing, for his mind was far too filled

  with questions and possible answers to manage the clever

  opponent Sera could be if she chose to oppose him.

  He immediately went to his library to search out a dog-

  eared copy of Plato’s Republic, which he had read as a boy of

  thirteen. Good God! It was all there—the exhortations against

  music that did not accompany poetry, the definition of

  permissible poetry as that which must describe only high

  character. And the description of the perfect state—one ruled

  by the intellectual elite and the philosopher king.

  Nicholas wanted to shout with elation. The Hill people,

  whom Europe scorned as barbarians, were members of a secret,

  neo-Platonic society, based on reason and order and the search

  for truth. Hiding in plain view from the rest of the world.

  Untainted by greed, brutality, war. And, he would wager against

  any odds after matching wits with Sera, a society that upheld

  the equality of women in all matters.

  ***

  The following afternoon, Sera was just changing into

  another of the confusing number of Outlander gowns she had

  to wear daily when she heard an impatient rap on her door.

  Nicholas flung himself into the room before she could even

  call out. She clutched the top of the tea gown together at the

  neck—at least she thought, given that the time was half past

  four, that this one was called a tea gown.

  “Go away before somebody sees us,” she hissed, pointing

  to the open door behind him.

  Nicholas shut the door with a decided bang. “Not now, they

  won’t.” He sounded a bit hoarse, and his face was ruddy with

  cold and excitement as he crossed the room in his powerful

  stride.

  “Here, let me do that,” he said impatiently. His fingers

  brushed her skin as he fastened the tiny buttons with

  knowledgeable skill.

  “Ooh, you are freezing cold.” Sera shivered, half from the

  feel of his chilled fingers on her flesh, half from something

  else.

  “It’s bloody winter outside, or haven’t you noticed?” he

  said, grinning. “Here, put on your cloak, and a bonnet, as well.”

  He pulled the Russian sable down over her ears.

  “The mercury’s dipped so low, we’ve hit a record for

  November.” He pulled her gloves over her hands as though she

  were a sluggish three-year-old, and shoved a muff into her arms.

  “Hurry up, now. We can’t be late.”

  “But where are we going?” she asked, breathless from

  running across the great hall in an attempt to catch up with him.

  “To the Abbey. Come on. We’ll take the carriage.”

  She ran the last bit across the stones of the courtyard, and a

  groom helped her up into the great black carriage with the royal

  crest shining upon it. As it began to roll away from the palace,

  she said, “But Nicholas, what is it?”

  “A surprise, and one I sincerely hope you’ll like. You did

  imply last night that you don’t hate music?”

  “I like your music—the little I’ve heard.”

  “Good. I should hate to think I’ve made two damnably

  foolish blunders in less than twenty-four hours.” Nicholas

  grinned, and Sera lost herself in thinking about how warm his

  eyes had become, and how young and handsome he looked.

  “Here we are.” The coach swayed to a stop. Nicholas had

  the door open before the groom could open it for them. He waved

  the groom away, jumped down and held his hand out for Sera.

  Low in a cloudless blue sky, the sun blazed coldly through air

  sparkling with the promise of another frosty night. Sera put out

  her gloved hand. Nicholas ignored it and clasped her waist,

  lifting her down. When he had her on the ground, he tugged her

  along through the high arched wooden doors of Montanyard

  Abbey.

  “Ah, we’re in time,” Nicholas said. The abbey’s empty rows

  of chairs formed a silent guard. Millions of candles glowed

  beneath the vaulted ceilings. Sera walked down the rows of

  empty seats, trying to push her fur hat up farther from where it

  sat over her left eye, a result of Nicholas’s enthusiasm and

  impatience. Nicholas stopped her in the center of the front row

  and motioned to a chair. When she was seated, he took the seat

  beside her.

  “Music,” he whispered to her. “For a prayer house.”

  Nicholas nodded to a man who stood a distance from them

  in the chantry. The man bowed low and tapped a stick on a

  podium in front of him.

  He raised his hands and held them still in the silence. With

  one downbeat, then up, she heard it. Strings, again, but not the

  light, airy strings of last night’s orchestra. These were somber,

  dark, solemn, rising in a four beat cadence to the steady thrum

  of her pulse as she was held, transfixed, upon the music.

  Then suddenly women’s voices, rising step by step along a

  scale, followed and darkened by the men’s voices beneath them.

  Kyrie eleison. Lord, have mercy upon us. The voices rose,

  filling the abbey, repeating the cry. She was wrapped in the

  music, rocked inside it, helpless against its power.

  The strings changed, softened their minor tone. A single


  voice soared above the rest. The modulation of pure, sweet sound

  filled her with ineffable longing. The voice went low—the range

  between its upper and lower notes seemed impossibly broad,

  even to Sera’s untrained ear. Then it soared high again, bright,

  clear, against the very vaults of heaven. Christe eleison. Christ

  have mercy upon us. The women took up the chorus again, the

  men beneath them, flowing like timeless waters through a silent

  valley.

  A short silence, and the voices rose in an exultant Gloria,

  thrusting her spirit against the barriers of the prayer house. She

  was bursting with it—the music, the candle flame, Nicholas

  beside her. It was too much. She wanted to cover her ears. She

  wanted to listen forever.

  That sweet, strong voice burst into song again, playfully

  rising in a Laudamus Te, warbling, then deepening on those

  impossibly low tones, then rising upward again in clarion trills.

  Sera had never heard anything so beautiful in her life than this

  voice that dipped then soared higher than her soul had ever

  hoped to fly. We praise Thee, we bless Thee, we worship Thee,

  we glorify Thee. Such rapture, such exultant force.

  Nicholas was looking at her. She could vaguely feel his

  eyes. He might have tapped her on the arm—she wasn’t certain.

  Suddenly, his hands were on each side of her head, turning it

  toward the huge stained glass windows. Light blazed through

  them from the setting sun, filling them with piercing radiance.

  She rose and went toward the light, standing inside a rainbow

  of color.

  The celestial music flowed over her. She raised her arms in

  her own silent hymn of praise. She might die of joy. The poets

  at home would understand just what this music, this blazing,

  sun pierced art, gave to the words of the mass. We give thanks

  to Thee for Thy great glory.

  Time slowed, became as nothing. Had she been listening

  for a moment or a day? I believe in one God, the Father

  Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible

  and invisible.

  And finally, the choir filling her with the beautiful Hosannas.

  The windows gave a last, brilliant blaze of color and slowly

  faded. The candles were a soft glow against the abbey’s darkness.

  As she came to herself, she saw Nicholas slowly rise.