Part 32 (2/2)

He paced to the edge of the quay. Water lapped at the wooden pilings, shus.h.i.+ng and slurping to the rhythm of unseen waves. Rain spattered the waters and stilled. Wide-bellied knarrs laden with cargo lay along the quay. Farther out on the bay, the sleek outlines of his own wars.h.i.+ps rested on unquiet waters, wreathed with fingers of mist.

The surface of the bay eddied in a spot where neither s.h.i.+p nor CHILD or FLAME reef had its place, the wake made by an unseen pod of merfolk, come to call.

He turned to Tenth Son.” Had you any warning of this?” Tenth Son gave a sharp lift of his chin, to signify ”no.” A pair of glittering, ridged backs snaked above the water and vanished. Tails slapped down. The townsfolk yelped and skittered back, all but the veiled woman, who, amazingly, took a step closer in order to see better. She made a noise, unintelligible through her veil, and extended a hand, palm out, as if she could taste their essence through her skin.

Without warning, a big body heaved up out of the water not a body's length from him, high out of the water like a whale breaching. The flat face took them in, although what it could actually see with those hard, red eyes he could not be sure. The eels that were its hair writhed wildly, eyeless snouts snapping mindlessly at the empty air. It spun with a half turn backward and hit the water with such weight that water sprayed everywhere, a new shower of rain, salty and tasting of the waste that humans so thoughtlessly dumped into their harbors.

He laughed sharply and shook off the water. The Hessi woman took a startled step backward, hastily brus.h.i.+ng herself off, but did not otherwise retreat. Her colleagues spilled backward onto the town walkways in fright. Their voices rose like those of startled crows.

A visage rose from the water, pale and stretched, hoisted by the razor-tipped hands of the merfolk. The object resolved itself into a spar, water-logged, wreathed by vinelike leaves tangled around something that resembled a face. Stronghand leaped backward as, with a final heave, the great spar clattered down onto the wooden quay and came to rest at his feet.

The spar was the remains of the mast of one of the living s.h.i.+ps of the tree sorcerers. Caught in its leafy spire rested an object so bloated and pale that at first he did not recognize it.

”Ai, Lord have mercy!” cried the portly merchant, voice cracking.” It's a man's head.”

Sea worms writhed in and out of the decaying eye sockets. In places the skin had peeled away to reveal the gleam of skull beneath.

”One of the Alban s.h.i.+ps did not escape our allies,” observed Tenth Son.

Stronghand stepped over the spar and its rotting centerpiece.

The water eddied in cool circles below him. The rain had stopped, and the clouds above the islets lightened perceptibly as the sun tried to beat through.

”This was unexpected. I have not forgotten that Alba awaits.” Truly, he did not understand his mysterious allies. At first, he thought they wanted only the flesh of his enemies to sustain them, but there was a greater purpose beneath their movements, something that spoke of intelligence and a slow-moving, cetacean plan, something swallowed into the depths of the sea, shuddering on tides known only in the deep waters. What did the merfolk want?

Negotiations remained difficult, for they didn't share a common language. Indeed, they seemed to know what he wanted more than he knew what they desired out of this alliance. Yet surely it must be something they thought he alone could help them obtain. He couldn't ask. He dared not show his ignorance, because ignorance signaled weakness.

Stronghand could never betray weakness. Too many knives waited to plunge into his back.

The waters roiled. A dozen tails flicked out of the muddy bay and slapped down, in tribute, in command, in question, or simply in answer. He did not know. Ridged backs cut the water as they sped bayward. With their wake spreading behind them, they vanished beyond the outermost s.h.i.+ps, plunging into the deep channel, and were gone.

A SINGLE lamp burned in the chapel of St. Thecla the Wit-nesser, not enough light to illuminate the magnificent frescoes depicting the life of the blessed saint for which the chapel was justly famous. Nor, really, could Antonia see clearly each distinctive pillar, carved with the visage of one of the seven disciplas, that ringed the inner sanctum. The marble columns breathed quietly in shadow. The dim light granted only a glimpse of each carved face: Matthias, Mark, and Johanna to the left, and Lucia, Marian, and Peter to the right. Back by the main door the column depicting St. Thecla herself took the honored place, directly facing the eighth pillar, which stood behind the altar but had no representation carved into it, nothing but a circle of rosettes at the base and the capital.

What need to see the carved faces of the pillars when the lamp did a perfectly good job of lighting the face of the man who knelt before the altar? He had set the ceramic lamp on the marble floor between him and the altar in such a way that the flame gave his face a saintly glow, as if G.o.d had touched him with Their holy light.

Did he know that she watched? Did he suspect that during his long hours of prayer people came sometimes to stand in the gallery to look down into the inner sanctum? Where they would see him, as fair as the dawn, as pious as a saint, and sublime in his virtue?

Beautiful Hugh.

I'm too old for this, she thought, irritated at the way her thoughts were tending. Old enough to be his grandmother if she had been married off at fifteen, as her sister and cousins had been, to seal alliances between families. But she had been allowed to enter the church after the husband chosen for her had died quite spectacularly the night before the wedding. She had misjudged the dosage. She hadn't meant to make his death messy, just final, but after all she had only been fourteen.

Her years in the church had gone much more smoothly. One lapse, that was all, in forty years. One lapse, and a single mistaken a.s.sessment, when she had judged that Sabella had the means and support to overthrow King Henry. Now she had lost both her son and her position in the church. She had no more margin for error. There must be no more misjudgments, no more miscalculations. Not one false step.

Below her, Hugh bowed his fair head to rest on folded hands. She knew he wasn't praying. He was studying that mysterious book the others called ”Bernard's book,” a book of secrets. It never left Hugh's side except to be locked into a chest sealed with several layers of protective wards. Here in the chapel, he had arranged his presbyter's robes to cover it where it lay open in front of his knees. His robes spread out around him in such a way that their drape and fall made a pleasing picture, framing him. An artist could not have done a better job of painting a representation of a dutiful and n.o.ble presbyter, intimate counselor to the king, confidant of the Holy Mother herself.

He looked up abruptly, as if he'd heard her breathing in the gallery, but he was only gazing toward the domed span that separated him from the heavens above. His lips moved. He spoke a word, more a sigh than a name.

”Liath.”

There was something terrible in the way he said it, like a curtain drawn aside so that one glimpsed what was better left unseen. He bowed his head again, and this time she thought he really was praying, desperately, pa.s.sionately.

The ardor suggested by his tightly clasped hands, the anguished cant of his shoulders, the intensity of his entire being was itself the flame drawing her. Like the galla whom she could call at need, luring them with fresh blood, she lapped up his suffering, if suffering it was. She had killed strong emotion in herself because it hindered her, but she had never lost her taste for it, even if she had to experience it secondhand.

Poor child. How terrible for him that his brilliance was flawed by this one weakness, this obsession for the one thing he could not have.

And yet, why not? Liath herself had spoken approvingly of Hugh's pa.s.sion for knowledge. There remained a link between them, one the girl herself had acknowledged reluctantly back in Verna. In a way, Hugh did possess her, because she could never forget or forgive him. Yet in her heart, Liath probably knew that Hugh was a better match for her than Prince Sanglant.

A footstep scuffed the floor. A presbyter dressed simply but richly in robe and long scarlet cloak came forward to stand in the shadow behind Hugh. He made the Circle at his breast, a sign of respect toward the holy altar and the gold cup resting there. As Hugh s.h.i.+fted back and turned to look at him, the man bowed deeply and with obvious reverence before speaking in the hushed tones appropriate to the dignity of their setting.

”Your Honor, the Holy Mother has awakened and is asking for you. You know how your presence does her so much good.”

”I thank you, Brother Ismundus. You are kind to disturb your own sleep this night.”

”Say not so! I should be praying for G.o.d's mercy to heal her, as you are, but but I haven't your strength.”

Hugh winced slightly as he turned his head to gaze at the un-carved pillar, whose smooth marbled surface represented the holy purity of the blessed Daisan. No need to carve a crude rendition of an earthly face when the blessed Daisan had been lifted bodily in a cloud of G.o.d's glory and transported directly to the Chamber of Light.

”It isn't strength but sin.” Was he aware how exquisitely the lamp limned his profile at this angle? ”I beg you, Brother Ismundus, do not grant me virtues I do not possess. I will come at once. Just let me finish my psalms.”

”Of course, Your Honor.” Ismundus bowed again before he retreated from the chapel. Of course the old man had no obligation to honor another presbyter in this way. He had served thirty years in the skopos' palace and had risen to become steward of the holy bedchamber. In truth, in the common way of things, a young presbyter like Hugh ought to be bowing to him, not the other way around.

But these days, as she knew well enough, nothing ran anymore in the common way of things. In recent years the world had been overset by sin and disobedience. If everything she had been taught in the last year were true, it would soon be overset catastrophically by G.o.d's hand, or Aoi sorcery.

Out of the coming chaos a strong leader could, and must, arise.

Maybe she had been wrong to believe that leaders.h.i.+p could come from Liath and Prince Sanglant. There were leaders besides Sanglant, men with greater power and more sophisticated ambition.

”I know where you are,” said Hugh suddenly into the sanctum's holy silence. The lamp flickered as she froze, wondering by what sorcery he had managed to detect her presence up here in the dense shadows of the gallery, spying on him.” I know what you're doing, my treasure. I can see you now, I can call the burning stone to make a window onto your journey, and I swear to you, Liath, I will follow you there.”

He bent his head and began to sing.

”Hear my cry for mercy when I call out to you, when I lift my hands toward your holy sanctuary. Do not number me with the wicked and the evildoers who speak sweetly to their fellows while malice boils in their hearts. Reward them according to their deeds. Glorify those who trust in G.o.d. Blessed are They, who listen to my plea for mercy.” He waited a moment in silence after he had done. Was that flickering in the lamp's flame the pa.s.sage of angels, attracted by the sweetness of his voice? But if he were waiting for something, it did not come. He rose. Closing his book of secrets, he tied it shut with a red ribbon, tucked it under his arm, and walked away, pa.s.sing under the archway and out through the doors. The lamp burned on. It was so silent she heard the hiss of the wick.

She lingered in the shadows in the gallery that ringed the inner sanctum. No need to risk being seen exiting the gallery so soon after Hugh's departure. Anyway, she liked it here in St. Thecla's Chapel. Emperor Taillefer had modeled the royal chapel at Autun on this very sanctuary, with its eight sides, double-vaulted walls, and domed roof. According to Heribert, St. Thecla's Chapel was more perfectly proportioned than the copy at Autun, but certainly the royal chapel at Autun inspired awe and holy fervor because of its grandeur.

Liath was Taillefer's great granddaughter, heir to his earthly glory and power. Just as she, once known as Biscop Antonia of Mainni but now called Sister Venia, understood the delicate balance of power at play within the skopos' palace as a long and deadly winter turned the corner into the lean weeks of early spring. The Holy Mother Clementia lay dying. Soon, her soul would pa.s.s out of her body and ascend through the seven spheres to the Chamber of Light while, below, on Earth, some n.o.blewoman of proper birth, rank, and holy stature would be elected to govern in her place.

” 'Our hearts have not gone astray' ” she murmured,” 'nor have our feet strayed from Your path.' ”

LIATO dozed in comfort in the soft embrace of Somorhas. It was like luxuriating in a bath filled with rose petals with the water neither too hot nor too cold. She was so spectacularly comfortable that she simply did not want to move or even open her eyes. Nothing hurt; she had not a single nagging discomfort. No reason to hurry forward. She had been on the road for so long it seemed cruel not to rest here a while.

In the distance she heard faint singing, a vocal accompaniment to the chiming music of the spheres. A person could just lie here forever and bathe in the perfect counterpoint of the music, never ending, always melodious and in faultless harmony.

Wind brushed her face. A touch, as soft as a feather, tickled her lips. A cool rush flowed down her throat as though a breath of wind had insinuated itself into her very body.

”Pa.s.s through the horned gate of Somorhas, if you would see your heart's desire.”

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